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BOOKS  BY 
MARY  JOHNSTON 


SIR   MORTIMER 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  NEW   YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


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A    Novel 


BY 

MARY  JOHNSTON 

A  uthor   of 

'TO  HAVE  AND  TO  HOLD"  "AUDREY"  "LEWIS  RAND* 

"SIR  MORTIMER"  "THE  LONG  ROLL" 


HARPER  fcf  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON 


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Copyright,  1918,  by  Mary  Johnston 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September.  1918 

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CHAPTER  I 

SAID  Mother  Binning:  "Whiles  I  spin  and  whiles 
I  dream.  A  bonny  day  like  this  I  look." 

English  Strickland,  tutor  at  Glenfernie  House, 
looked,  too,  at  the  feathery  glen,  vivid  in  June  sun 
shine.  The  ash-tree  before  Mother  Binning's  cot 
overhung  a  pool  of  the  little  river.  Below,  the 
water  brawled  and  leaped  from  ledge  to  ledge,  but 
here  at  the  head  of  the  glen  it  ran  smooth  and  still. 
A  rose-bush  grew  by  the  door  and  a  hen  and  her  chicks 
crossed  in  the  sun.  English  Strickland,  who  had  been 
fishing,  sat  on  the  door-stone  and  talked  to  Mother 
Binning,  sitting  within  with  her  wheel  beside  her. 

"What  is  it,  Mother,  to  have  the  second  sight?" 

"It's  to  see  behind  the  here  and  now.  Why 're 
ye  asking?" 

"I  wish  I  could  buy  it  or  slave  for  it !"  said  Strick 
land.  "Over  and  over  again  I  really  need  to  see 
behind  the  here  and  now!" 

"Aye.  It's  needed  mair  really  than  folk  think. 
It's  no'  to  be  had  by  buying  nor  slaving.  How  are 
the  laird  and  the  leddy?" 


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"Why,  well.     Tell  me,"  said  Strickland,  "some, 
of  the  things  you've  seen  .with -second  sight." 
"It  taks  inner  ears  for  inner  things." 
"How  do  you  know'  I-  hdven't  them?" 
"Maybe  'tis  so.     Ye'fe  liked  well  enough." 
Mother  Binning  looked  at  the  dappling  water  and 
the  June  trees  and  the  bright  blue  sky.     It  was  a  day 
to  loosen  tongue. 

"I'll  tell  you  ane  thing  I  saw.  It's  mair  than 
twenty  years  since  James  Stewart,  that  was  son  of 
him  who  fled,  wad  get  Scotland  and  England  again 
intil  his  hand.  So  the  laddie  came  frae  overseas, 
and  made  stir  and  trouble  enough,  I  tell  ye! 
.  .  .  Now  I'll  show  you  what  I  saw,  I  that  was  a 
young  woman  then,  and  washing  my  wean's  claes  in 
the  water  there.  The  month  was  September,  and 
the  year  seventeen  fifteen.  Mind  you,  nane  here 
abouts  knew  yet  of  thae  goings-on!  ...  I  sat  back 
on  my  heels,  with  Jock's  sark  in  my  hand,  and  a 
lav'rock  was  singing,  and  whiles  I  listened  the  pool 
grew  still.  And  first  it  was  blue  glass  under  blue  sky, 
and  I  sat  caught.  And  then  it  was  curled  cloud  or 
milk,  and  then  it  was  nae  color  at  all.  And  then  I 
saw,  and  'twas  as  though  what  I  saw  was  around 
me.  There  was  a  town  nane  like  Glenfernie,  and  a 
country  of  mountains,  and  a  water  no'  like  this  one. 
There  pressed  a  thrang  of  folk,  and  they  were  Hieland. 
men  and  Lowland  men,  but  mair  Hieland  than 
Lowland,  and  there  were  chiefs  and  chieftains  and 
Lowland  lords,  and  there  were  pipers.  I  heard 
naught,  but  it  was  as  though  bright  shadows  were 
around  me.  There  was  a  height  like  a  Good  People's 
mount,  and  a  braw  fine-clad  lord  speaking  and 


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reading  frae  a  paper,  and  by  him  a  surpliced  man 
to  gie  a  prayer,  and  there  was  a  banner  pole,  and 
it  went  up  high,  and  it  had  a  gowd  ball  atop.  The 
braw  lord  stopped  speaking,  and  all  the  Hielandmen 
and  Lowlandmen  drew  and  held  up  and  brandished 
their  claymores  and  swords.  The  flash  ran  around 
like  the  levin.  I  kenned  that  they  shouted,  all  thae 
gay  shadows!  I  saw  the  pipers*  cheeks  fill  with 
wind,  and  the  bags  of  the  pipes  fill.  Then  ane  drew 
on  a  fine  silken  rope,  and  up  the  pole  there  went  a 
braw  silken  banner,  and  it  sailed  out  in  the  wind. 
And  there  was  mair  shouting  and  brandishing.  But 
what  think  ye  might  next  befall?  That  gowden 
ball,  gowden  like  the  sun  before  it  drops,  that  topped 
the  pole,  it  fell!  I  marked  it  fall,  and  the  heads 
dodge,  and  it  rolled  upon  the  ground.  .  .  .  And  then 
all  went  out  like  a  candle  that  you  blaw  upon.  I 
was  kneeling  by  the  water,  and  Jock's  sark  in  my 
hand,  and  the  lav'rock  singing,  and  that  was  all." 

' '  I  have  heard  tell  of  that, ' '  said  Strickland.  ' '  It 
was  near  Braemar." 

"And  that's  mony  a  lang  league  frae  here!  Sax 
days,  and  we  had  news  of  the  rising,  with  the  gather 
ing  at  Braemar.  And  said  he  wha  told  us,  'The 
gilt  ball  fell  frae  the  standard  pole,  and  there's  nane 
to  think  that  a  good  omen!'  But  I  saw  it,"  said 
Mother  Binning.  She  turned  her  wheel,  a  woman 
not  yet  old  and  with  a  large,  tranquil  comeliness. 
"What  I  see  makes  fine  company!" 

Strickland  plucked  a  rose  and  smelled  it.  "This 
country  is  fuller  of  such  things  than  is  England  that 
I  come  from." 

"Aye.  It's  a  grand  country."  She  continued  to 

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spin.  The  tutor  looked  at  the  sun.  It  was  time  to 
be  going  if  he  wished  another  hour  with  the  stream. 
He  took  up  his  rod  and  book  and  rose  from  the  door 
step.  Mother  Binning  glanced  aside  from  her  wheel. 

"How  gaes  things  with  the  lad  at  the  House?" 

"Alexander  or  James?" 

"The  one  ye  call  Alexander." 

"That  is  his  name." 

"I  think  that  he's  had  ithers.  That's  a  lad  of 
mony  lives!" 

Strickland,  halting  by  the  rose-bush,  looked  at 
Mother  Binning.  "I  suppose  we  call  it  'wisdom' 
when  two  feel  alike.  Now  that's  just  what  I  feel 
about  Alexander  Jardine!  It's  just  feeling  without 
rationality." 

"Eh?" 

"There  isn't  any  reason  in  it." 

"I  dinna  know  about  'reason.'  There's  being  in 
it." 

The  tutor  made  as  if  to  speak  further,  then,  with 
a  shake  of  his  head,  thought  better  of  it.  Thirty- 
five  years  old,  he  had  been  a  tutor  since  he  was 
twenty,  dwelling,  in  all,  in  four  or  five  more  or  less 
considerable  houses  and  families.  Experience,  add 
ing  itself  to  innate  good  sense,  had  made  him  slow 
to  discuss  idiosyncrasies  of  patrons  or  pupils.  Strong 
perplexity  or  strong  feeling  might  sometimes  drive 
him,  but  ordinarily  he  kept  a  rein  on  speech.  Now 
he  looked  around  him. 

"What  high  summer,  lovely  weather!" 

"Oh  aye!  It's  bonny.  Will  ye  be  gaeing,  since 
ye  have  na  mair  to  say?" 

English  Strickland  laughed  and  said  good-by  to 

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Mother  Binning  and  went.  The  ash-tree,  the  hazels 
that  fringed  the  water,  a  point  of  mossy  rock,  hid  the 
cot.  The  drone  of  the  wheel  no  longer  reached  his 
ears.  It  was  as  though  all  that  had  sunk  into 
the  earth.  Here  was  only  the  deep,  the  green,  and 
lonely  glen.  He  found  a  pool  that  invited,  cast,  and 
awaited  the  speckled  victim.  In  the  morning  he  had 
had  fair  luck,  but  now  nothing.  .  .  .  The  water 
showed  no  more  diamonds,  the  lower  slopes  of  the 
converging  hills  grew  a  deep  and  slumbrous  green. 
Above  was  the  gold,  shoulder  and  crest  powdered 
with  it,  unearthly,  uplifted.  Strickland  ceased  his 
fishing.  The  light  moved  slowly  upward ;  the  trees, 
the  crag-heads,  melted  into  heaven ;  while  the  lower 
glen  lay  in  lengths  of  shadow,  in  jade  and  amethyst. 
A  whispering  breeze  sprang  up,  cool  as  the  water 
sliding  by.  Strickland  put  up  his  fisherman's  gear 
and  moved  homeward,  down  the  stream. 

He  had  a  very  considerable  way  to  go.  The  glen 
path,  narrow  and  rough,  went  up  and  down,  still 
following  the  water.  Hazel  and  birch,  oak  and  pine, 
overhung  and  darkened  it.  Bosses  of  rock  thrust 
themselves  forward,  patched  with  lichen  and  moss, 
seamed  and  fringed  with  fern  and  heath.  Roots  of 
trees,  huge  and  twisted,  spread  and  clutched  like 
guardian  serpents.  In  places  where  rock  had  fallen 
the  earth  seemed  to  gape.  In  the  shadow  it  looked 
a  gnome  world — a  gnome  or  a  dragon  world.  Then 
upon  ledge  or  bank  showed  bells  or  disks  or  petaled 
suns  of  June  flowers,  rose  and  golden,  white  and 
azure,  while  overhead  was  heard  the  evening  song 
of  birds  alike  calm  and  merry,  and  through  a  cleft 
in  the  hills  poured  the  ruddy,  comfortable  sun. 

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The  walls  declined  in  height,  sloped  farther  back. 
The  path  grew  broader;  the  water  no  longer  fell 
roaring,  but  ran  sedately  between  pebbled  beaches. 
The  scene  grew  wider,  the  mouth  of  the  glen  was 
reached.  He  came  out  into  a  sunset  world  of  dale 
and  moor  and  mountain-heads  afar.  There  were 
fields  of  grain,  and  blue  waving  feathers  from 
chimneys  of  cottage  and  farm-house.  In  the  dis 
tance  showed  a  village,  one  street  climbing  a  hill, 
and  atop  a  church  with  a  spire  piercing  the  clear  east. 
The  stream  widened,  flowing  thin  over  a  pebbly  bed. 
The  sun  was  not  yet  down.  It  painted  a  glory 
in  the  west  and  set  lanes  and  streets  of  gold  over  the 
hills  and  made  the  little  river  like  Pactolus.  Strick 
land  approached  a  farm-house,  prosperous  and  vener 
able,  mended  and  neat.  Thatched,  long,  white,  and 
low,  behind  it  barns  and  outbuildings,  it  stood 
tree-guarded,  amid  fields  of  young  corn.  Beyond 
it  swelled  a  long  moorside;  in  front  slipped  the  still 
stream. 

There  were  stepping-stones  across  the  stream. 
Two  young  girls,  coming  toward  the  house,  had  set 
foot  upon  these.  Strickland,  halting  in  the  shadow 
of  hazels  and  young  aspens,  watched  them  as  they 
crossed.  Their  step  was  free  and  light;  they  came 
with  a  kind  of  hardy  grace,  elastic,  poised,  and  very 
young,  homeward  from  some  visit  on  this  holiday. 
The  tutor  knew  them  to  be  Elspeth  and  Gilian  Bar 
row,  granddaughters  of  Jarvis  Barrow  of  White  Farm. 
The  elder  might  have  been  fifteen,  the  younger 
thirteen  years.  They  wore  their  holiday  dresses. 
Elspeth  had  a  green  silken  snood,  and  Gilian  a  blue. 
Elspeth  sang  as  she  stepped  from  stone  to  stone: 

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"But  I  will  get  a  bonny  boat, 

And  I  will  sail  the  sea, 
For  I  maun  gang  to  Love  Gregor, 
Since  he  canna  come  hame  to  me — " 


They  did  not  see  Strickland  where  he  stood  by  the 
hazels.  He  let  them  go  by,  watching  them  with  a 
quiet  pleasure.  They  took  the  upward-running  lane. 
Hawthorns  in  bloom  hid  them;  they  were  gone  like 
young  deer.  Strickland,  crossing  the  stream,  went 
his  own  way. 

The  country  became  more  open,  with,  at  this  hour, 
a  dreamlike  depth  and  hush.  Down  went  the  sun, 
but  a  glow  held  and  wrapped  the  earth  in  hues  of 
faery.  When  he  had  walked  a  mile  and  more  he 
saw  before  him  Glenfernie  House.  In  the  modern 
and  used  moiety  seventy  years  old,  in  the  ancient 
keep  and  ruin  of  a  tower  three  hundred,  it  crowned 
— the  ancient  and  the  latter-day — a  craggy  hill  set 
with  dark  woods,  and  behind  it  came  up  like  a 
wonder  lantern,  like  a  bubble  of  pearl,  the  full  moon. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  tutor,  in  his  own  room,  put  down  his 
fisherman's  rod  and  bag.  The  chamber  was 
a  small  one,  set  high  up,  with  two  deep  windows 
tying  the  interior  to  the  yet  rosy  west  and  the  clearer, 
paler  south.  Strickland  stood  a  moment,  then  went 
out  at  door  and  down  three  steps  and  along  a  pas 
sageway  to  two  doors,  one  closed,  the  other  open. 
He  tapped  upon  the  latter. 

"James  t" 

A  boy  of  fourteen,  tall  and  fair,  with  a  flushed, 
merry  face,  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the 
door  more  widely.  "Oh,  aye,  Mr.  Strickland, 
I'm  in!" 

"Is  Alexander?" 

"Not  yet.  I  haven't  seen  him.  I  was  at  the 
village  with  Dandie  Saunderson." 

"Do  you  know  what  he  did  with  himself?" 

"Not  precisely." 

"I  see.     Well,  it's  nearly  supper-time." 

Back  in  his  own  quarters,  the  tutor  made  such 
changes  as  were  needed,  and  finally  stood  forth  in 
a  comely  suit  of  brown,  with  silver-buckled  shoes, 
stock  and  cravat  of  fine  cambric,  and  a  tie-wig. 
Midway  in  his  toilet  he  stopped  to  light  two  candles. 
These  showed,  in  the  smallest  of  mirrors,  set  of  wig 

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and  cravat,  and  between  the  two  a  thoughtful, 
cheerful,  rather  handsome  countenance. 

He  had  left  the  door  ajar  so  that  he  might  hear, 
if  he  presently  returned,  his  eldest  pupil.  But  he 
heard  only  James  go  clattering  down  the  passage 
and  the  stair.  Strickland,  blowing  out  his  candles, 
left  his  room  to  the  prolonged  June  twilight  and  the 
climbing  moon. 

The  stairway  down,  from  landing  to  landing,  lay 
in  shadow,  but  as  he  approached  the  hall  he  caught 
the  firelight.  The  laird  had  a  London  guest  who 
might  find  a  chill  in  June  nights  so  near  the  north. 
The  blazing  wood  showed  forth  the  chief  Glenfernie 
gathering-place,  wide  and  deep,  with  a  great  chim- 
neypiece  and  walls  of  black  oak,  and  hung  thereon 
some  old  pieces  of  armor  and  old  weapons.  There 
was  a  table  spread  for  supper,  and  a  servant  went 
about  with  a  long  candle-lighter,  lighting  candles. 
A  collie  and  a  hound  lay  upon  the  hearth.  Between 
them  stood  Mrs.  Jardine,  a  tall,  fair  woman  of  forty 
and  more,  with  gray  eyes,  strong  nose,  and  humorous 
mouth. 

"Light  them  all,  Davie!  It  '11  be  dark  then  by 
London  houses." 

Davie  showed  an  old  servant's  familiarity.  "He 
wasna  sae  grand  when  he  left  auld  Scotland  thirty 
years  since!  I'm  thinking  he  might  remember  when 
he  had  nae  candles  ava  in  his  auld  hoose." 

"Well,  he'll  have  candles  enough  in  his  new  hall." 

Davie  lit  the  last  candle.  "They  say  that  he  is 
sinfu'  rich!" 

"Rich  enough  to  buy  Black  Hill,"  said  Mrs.  Jar- 
dine,  and  turned  to  the  fire.  The  tutor  joined  her 
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there.  He  had  for  her  liking  and  admiration,  and 
she  for  him  almost  a  motherly  affection.  Now  she 
smiled  as  he  came  up. 

"Did  you  have  good  fishing?" 

"Only  fair." 

"Mr.  Jardine  and  Mr.  Touris  have  just  re 
turned.  They  rode  to  Black  Hill.  Have  you  seen 
Alexander?" 

"No.  I  asked  Jamie — " 

"So  did  I.     But  he  could  not  tell." 

"He  may  have  gone  over  the  moor  and  been 
belated.  Bran  is  with  him." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  He's  a  solitary  one,  with  a  thousand  in 
himself!" 

"You're  the  second  woman,"  remarked  Strick 
land,  "who's  said  that  to-day,"  and  told  her  of 
Mother  Binning. 

Mrs.  Jardine  pushed  back  a  fallen  ember  with 
the  toe  of  her  shoe.  "I  don't  know  whether  she 
sees  or  only  thinks  she  sees.  Some  do  the  tane  and 
some  do  the  tither.  Here's  the  laird." 

Two  men  entered  together — a  large  man  and  a 
small  man.  The  first,  great  of  height  and  girth, 
was  plainly  dressed;  the  last,  seeming  slighter  by 
contrast  than  he  actually  was,  wore  fine  cloth,  silken 
hose,  gold  buckles  to  his  shoes,  and  a  full  wig.  The 
first  had  a  massive,  somewhat  saturnine  countenance, 
the  last  a  shrewd,  narrow  one.  The  first  had  a  long 
stride  and  a  wide  reach  from  thumb  to  little  finger, 
the  last  a  short  step  and  a  cupped  hand.  William 
Jardine,  laird  of  Glenfernie,  led  the  way  to  the  fire. 

"The  ford  was  swollen.  Mr.  Touris  got  a  little 
wet  and  chilled." 

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"Ah,  the  fire  is  good!"  said  Mr.  Touris.  "They 
do  not  burn  wood  like  this  in  London!" 

"You  will  burn  it  at  Black  Hill.  I  hope  that  you 
like  it  better  and  better?" 

"It  has  possibilities,  ma'am.  Undoubtedly,"  said 
Mr.  Touris,  the  Scots  adventurer  for  fortune,  set  up 
as  merchant -trader  in  London,  making  his  fortune 
by  "interloping"  voyages  to  India,  but  now  share 
holder  and  part  and  lot  of  the  East  India  Company — * 
"undoubtedly  the  place  has  possibilities."  He 
warmed  his  hands.  "Well,  it  would  taste  good  to 
come  back  to  Scotland — !"  His  words  might  have 
been  finished  out,  "and  laird  it,  rich  and  influential, 
where  once  I  went  forth,  cadet  of  a  good  familyr  but 
poorer  than  a  church  mouse!" 

Mrs.  Jardine  made  a  murmur  of  hope  that  he 
would  come  back  to  Scotland.  But  the  laird  looked 
with  a  kind  of  large  gloom  at  the  reflection  of  fire 
and  candle  in  battered  breastplate  and  morion  and 
crossed  pikes. 

Supper  was  brought  in  by  two  maids,  Eppie  and 
Phemie,  and  with  them  came  old  Lauchlinson,  the 
butler.  Mrs.  Jardine  placed  herself  behind  the  silver 
urn,  and  Mr.  Touris  was  given  the  seat  nearest  the 
fire.  The  boy  James  appeared,  and  with  him  the 
daughter  of  the  house,  Alice,  a  girl  of  twelve,  bonny 
and  merry. 

"Where  is  Alexander?"  asked  the  laird. 

Strickland  answered.  "He  is  not  in  yet,  sir.  I 
fancy  that  he  walked  to  the  far  moor.  Bran  is 
with  him." 

"He's  a  wanderer!"  said  the  laird.  "But  he 
ought  to  keep  hours." 

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"That's  a  fine  youth!"  quoth  Mr.  Touris,  drinking 
tea.  "I  marked  him  yesterday,  casting  the  bar. 
Very  strong — a  powerful  frame  like  yours,  Glen- 
fernie!  When  is  he  going  to  college?" 

"This  coming  year.  I  have  kept  him  by  me 
late,"  said  the  laird,  broodingly.  "I  like  my  bairns 
at  home." 

"Aye,  but  the  young  will  not  stay  as  they  used 
to !  They  will  be  voyaging, ' '  said  the  guest.  ' '  They 
build  outlandish  craft  and  forthfare,  no  matter  what 
you  cry  to  them!"  His  voice  had  a  mordant  note. 
"I  know.  I've  got  one  myself — a  nephew,  not  a 
son.  But  I  am  his  guardian  and  he's  in  my  house, 
and  it  is  the  same.  If  I  buy  Black  Hill,  Glenfernie, 
I  hope  that  your  son  and  my  nephew  may  be  friends. 
They're  about  of  an  age." 

The  listening  Jamie  spoke  from  beyond  Strick 
land.  "What's  your  nephew's  name,  sir?" 

"Ian.  Ian  Rullock.  His  father's  mother  was  a 
Highland  lady,  near  kinswoman  to  Gordon  of  Hunt- 
ley."  Mr.  Touris  was  again  speaking  to  his  host. 
"As  a  laddie,  before  his  father's  death  (his  mother, 
my  sister,  died  at  his  birth),  he  was  much  with 
those  troublous  northern  kin.  His  father  took 
him,  too,  in  England,  here  and  there  among  the 
Tory  crowd.  But  I've  had  him  since  he  was  twelve 
and  am  carrying  him  on  in  the  straight  Whig 
path." 

"And  in  the  true  Presbyterian  religion?" 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Touris,  "his  father 
was  of  the  Church  Episcopal  in  Scotland.  I  trust 
that  we  are  all  Christians,  Glenfernie!" 

The  laird  made  a  dissenting  sound.  "I  kenned," 

12 


FOES 

he  said,  and  his  voice  held  a  grating  gibe,  "that 
you  had  left  the  Kirk." 

Mr.  Archibald  Touris  sipped  his  tea.  "I  did  not 
leave  it  so  far,  Glenf ernie,  that  I  cannot  return !  In 
England,  for  business  reasons,  I  found  it  wiser  to  live 
as  lived  the  most  that  I  served.  Naaman  was  per 
mitted  to  bow  himself  in  the  house  of  Rimmon." 

"You  are  not  Naaman,"  answered  the  laird. 
"Moreover,  I  hold  that  Naaman  sinned!" 

Mrs.  Jardine  would  make  a  diversion.  "Mr.  Jar- 
dine,  will  you  have  sugar  to  your  tea?  Mr.  Strick 
land  says  the  great  pine  is  blown  down,  this  side  the 
glen.  The  Mercury  brings  us  news  of  the  great 
world,  Mr.  Touris,  but  I  dare  say  you  can  give  us 
more?" 

"The  chief  news,  ma'am,  is  that  we  want  war 
with  Spain  and  Walpole  won't  give  it  to  us.  But 
we'll  have  it — British  trade  must  have  it  or  lower  her 
colors  to  the  Dons!  France,  too — " 

Supper  went  on,  with  abundant  and  good  food  and 
drink.  The  laird  sat  silent.  Strickland  gave  Mrs. 
Jardine  yeoman  aid.  Jamie  and  Alice  now  listened 
to  the  elders,  now  in  an  undertone  discoursed  their 
own  affairs.  Mr.  Touris  talked,  large  trader  talk, 
sprinkled  with  terms  of  commerce  and  Indian 
policy.  Supper  over,  all  rose.  The  table  was 
cleared,  wine  and  glasses  brought  and  set  upon  it, 
between  the  candles.  The  young  folk  vanished. 
Bright  as  was  the  night,  the  air  carried  an  edge. 
Mr.  Touris,  standing  by  the  fire,  warmed  himself 
and  took  snuff.  Strickland,  who  had  left  the  hall, 
returned  and  placed  her  embroidery  frame  for  Mrs* 
Jardine. 

13 


FOES 

"Is  Alexander  in  yet?" 

"Not  yet." 

She  began  to  work  in  cross-stitch  upon  a  wreath 
of  tulips  and  roses.  The  tutor  took  his  book  and 
withdrew  to  the  table  and  the  candles  thereon.  The 
laird  came  and  dropped  his  great  form  upon  the 
settle.  He  held  silence  a  few  moments,  then  began 
to  speak. 

"I  am  fifty  years  old.  I  was  a  bairn  just  talking 
and  toddling  about  the  year  the  Stewart  fled  and 
King  William  came  to  England.  My  father  had 
Campbell  blood  in  him  and  was  a  friend  of  Argyle's. 
The  estate  of  Glenfernie  was  not  to  him  then,  but 
his  uncle  held  it  and  had  an  heir  of  his  body.  My 
father  was  poor  save  in  stanchness  to  the  liberties 
of  Kirk  and  kingdom.  My  mother  was  a  minister's 
daughter,  and  she  and  her  father  and  mother  were 
among  the  persecuted  for  the  sake  of  the  true  Re 
formed  and  Covenanted  Church  of  Scotland.  My 
mother  had  a  burn  in  her  cheek.  It  was  put  there, 
when  she  was  a  young  lass,  by  order  of  Grierson  of 
Lagg.  She  was  set  among  those  to  be  sold  into  the 
plantations  in  America.  A  kinsman  who  had  power 
lifted  her  from  that  bog,  but  much  she  suffered  be 
fore  she  was  freed.  .  .  .  When  I  was  little  and  sat 
upon  her  knee  I  would  put  my  forefinger  in  that 
mark.  'It's  a  seal,  laddie,'  she  would  say.  'Sealed 
to  Christ  and  His  true  Kirk!'  But  when  I  was 
bigger  I  only  wanted  to  meet  Grierson  of  Lagg,  and 
grieved  that  he  was  dead  and  gone  and  that  Satan, 
not  I,  had  the  handling  of  him.  My  grandfather 
and  mother.  .  .  .  My  grandfather  was  among  the 
outed  ministers  in  Galloway.  Thrust  from  his 

14 


FOES 

church  and  his  parish,  he  preached  upon  the  moors 
— yea,  to  juniper  and  whin-bush  and  the  whaups 
that  flew  and  nested!  Then  the  persecuted  men, 
women  and  bairns,  gathered  there,  and  he  preached 
to  them.  Aye,  and  he  was  at  Bothwell  Bridge. 
Claverhouse's  men  took  him,  and  he  lay  for  some 
months  in  the  Edinburgh  tolbooth,  and  then  by 
Council  and  justiciary  was  condemned  to  be  hanged. 
And  so  he  was  hanged  at  the  cross  of  Edinburgh. 
And  what  he  said  before  he  died  was  'With  what 
measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you9  .  .  .  My 
grandmother,  for  hearing  preaching  in  the  fields 
and  for  sheltering  the  distressed  for  the  Covenant's 
sake,  was  sent  with  other  godly  women  to  the  Bass 
Rock.  There  in  cold  and  heat,  in  hunger  and  sick 
ness,  she  bided  for  two  years.  When  at  last  they 
let  her  body  forth  her  mind  was  found  to  be  broken. 
.  .  .  My  father  and  mother  married  and  lived,  until 
Glenfernie  came  to  him,  at  Windy  garth.  I  was 
born  at  Windygarth.  My  grandmother  lived  with 
us.  I  was  twelve  years  old  before  she  went  from 
earth.  It  was  all  her  pleasure  to  be  forth  from 
the  house — any  house,  for  she  called  them  all 
prisons.  So  I  was  sent  to  ramble  with  her.  Out  of 
doors,  with  the  harmless  things  of  earth,  she  was 
wise  enough — and  good  company.  The  old  of  this 
countryside  remember  us,  going  here  and  there.  .  .  . 
I  used  to  think,  'If.  I  had  been  living  then,  I  would 
not  have  let  those  things  happen!'  And  I  dreamed 
of  taking  coin,  and  of  dropping  the  same  coin  into 
the  hands  that  gave.  .  .  .  And  so,  the  other  having 
served  your  turn,  Touris,  you  will  change  back  to 
the  true  Kirk?" 


FOES 

Mr.  Touris  handled  his  snuff-box,  considered  the 
chasing  upon  the  gold  lid.  "  Those  were  sore  hap 
penings,  Glenfernie,  but  they're  past!  I  make  no 
wonder  that,  being  you,  you  feel  as  you  do.  But 
the  world's  in  a  mood,  if  I  may  say  it,  not  to  take 
so  hardly  religious  differences.  I  trust  that  I  am 
as  religious  as  another — but  my  family  was  always 
moderate  there.  In  matters  political  the  world's 
as  hot  as  ever — but  there,  too,  it  is  my  instinct  to 
ca'  canny.  But  if  you  talk  of  trade" — he  tapped 
his  snuff-box — "I  will  match  you,  Glenfernie!  If 
there's  wrong,  pay  it  back !  Hold  to  your  principles ! 
But  do  it  cannily.  Smile  when  there's  smart,  and 
get  your  own  again  by  being  supple.  In  the  end 
you'll  demand — and  get — a  higher  interest.  Prosper 
at  your  enemy's  cost,  and  take  repayment  for  your 
hurt  sugared  and  spiced!" 

'Til  not  do  it  so!"  said  Glenfernie.  "But  I 
would  take  my  stand  at  the  crag's  edge  and  cry  to 
Grierson  of  Lagg,  'You  or  I  go  down !'" 

Mr.  Touris  brushed  the  snuff  from  his  ruffles. 
"It's  a  great  century!  We're  growing  enlightened." 

With  a  movement  of  her  fingers  Mrs.  Jar  dine 
helped  to  roll  from  her  lap  a  ball  of  rosy  wool.  ' '  Mr. 
Jardine,  will  you  give  me  that?  Had  you  heard 
that  Abercrombie's  cows  were  lifted?" 

"Aye,  I  heard.     What  is  it,  Holdfast?" 

Both  dogs  had  raised  their  heads. 

"Bran  is  outside,"  said  Strickland. 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  there  came  in  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  tall  and  well-built,  with  clothing 
that  testified  to  an  encounter  alike  with  brier  and 
bog.  The  hound  Bran  followed  him.  He  blinked 

16 


FOES 

at  the  lights  and  the  fire,  then  with  a  gesture  of 
deprecation  crossed  the  hall  to  the  stairway.  His 
mother  spoke  after  him. 

"Davie  will  set  you  something  to  eat." 

He  answered,  "I  do  not  want  anything,"  then, 
five  steps  up,  paused  and  turned  his  head.  "I 
stopped  at  White  Farm,  and  they  gave  me  supper." 
He  was  gone,  running  up  the  stairs,  and  Bran  with 
him. 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  shaded  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  fire.  Mrs.  Jardine,  working  upon  the 
gold  streak  in  a  tulip,  held  her  needle  suspended  and 
sat  for  a  moment  with  unseeing  gaze,  then  resumed 
the  bright  wreath.  The  tutor  began  to  think  again 
of  Mother  Binning,  and,  following  this,  of  the 
stepping-stones  at  White  Farm,  and  Elspeth  and 
Gilian  Barrow  balanced  above  the  stream  of  gold. 
Mr.  Touris  put  up  his  snuff-box. 

"That's  a  fine  youth!  I  should  say  that  he  took 
after  you,  Glenfernie.  But  it's  hard  to  tell  whom 
the  young  take  after!" 


CHAPTER  111 

THE  school-room  at  Glenfernie  gave  upon  the 
hill's  steepest,  most  craglike  face.  A  door 
opened  on  a  hand's-breadth  of  level  turf  across  from 
which  rose  the  broken  and  ruined  wall  that  once 
had  surrounded  the  keep.  Ivy  overgrew  this;  be 
low  a  wide  and  ragged  breach  a  pine  had  set  its 
roots  in  the  hillside.  Its  top  rose  bushy  above  the 
stones.  Beyond  the  opening,  one  saw  from  the 
school-room,  as  through  a  window,  field  and  stream 
and  moor,  hill  and  dale.  The  school-room  had  been 
some  old  storehouse  or  office.  It  was  stone  walled 
and  floored,  with  three  small  windows  and  a  fireplace. 
Now  it  contained  a  long  table  with  a  bench  and 
three  or  four  chairs,  a  desk  and  shelves  for  books. 
One  door  opened  upon  the  little  green  and  the  wall; 
a  second  gave  access  to  a  courtyard  and  the  rear  of 
the  new  house. 

Here  on  a  sunny,  still  August  forenoon  Strickland 
and  the  three  Jardines  went  through  the  educational 
routine.  The  ages  of  the  pupils  were  not  sufficiently 
near  together  to  allow  of  a  massed  instruction.  The 
three  made  three  classes.  Jamie  and  Alice  worked 
in  the  school-room,  under  Strickland's  eye.  But 
Alexander  had  or  took  a  wider  freedom.  It  was  his 
wont  to  prepare  his  task  much  where  he  pleased, 

18 


FOES 

coming  to  the  room  for  recitation  or  for  colloquy 
upon  this  or  that  aspect  of  knowledge  and  the 
attainment  thereof.  The  irregularity  mattered  the 
less  as  the  eldest  Jardine  combined  with  a  passion 
for  personal  liberty  and  out  of  doors  a  passion  for 
knowledge.  Moreover,  he  liked  and  trusted  Strick 
land.  He  would  go  far,  but  not  far  enough  to  strain 
the  tutor's  patience.  His  father  and  mother  and  all 
about  Glenfernie  knew  his  way  and  in  a  measure 
acquiesced.  He  had  managed  to  obtain  for  himself 
range.  Young  as  he  was,  his  indrawing,  outpushing 
force  was  considerable,  and  was  on  the  way,  Strick 
land  thought,  to  increase  in  power.  The  tutor  had 
for  this  pupil  a  mixed  feeling.  The  one  constant  in 
it  was  interest.  He  was  to  him  like  a  deep  lake, 
clear  enough  to  see  that  there  was  something  at  the 
bottom  that  cast  conflicting  lights  and  hints  of  shape. 
It  might  be  a  lump  of  gold,  or  a  coil  of  roots  which 
would  send  up  a  water-lily,  or  it  might  be  something 
different.  He  had  a  feeling  that  the  depths  them 
selves  hardly  knew.  Or  there  might  be  two  things 
of  two  natures  down  there  in  the  lake.  .  .  . 

Strickland  set  Alice  to  translating  a  French  fable, 
and  Jamie  to  reconsidering  a  neglected  page  of 
ancient  history.  Looking  through  the  west  window, 
he  saw  that  Alexander  had  taken  his  geometry  out 
through  the  great  rent  in  the  wall.  Book  and  stu 
dent  perched  beneath  the  pine-tree,  in  a  crook  made 
by  rock  and  brown  root,  overhanging  the  autumn 
world.  Strickland  at  his  own  desk  dipped  quill 
into  ink-well  and  continued  a  letter  to  a  friend  in 
England.  The  minutes  went  by.  From  the  court 
yard  came  a  subdued,  cheerful  household  clack  and 

19 


FOES 

murmur,  voices  of  men  and  maids,  with  once  Mrs, 
Jardine's  genial,  vigorous  tones,  and  once  the  laird's 
deep  bell  note,  calling  to  his  dogs.  On  the  western 
side  fell  only  the  sough  of  the  breeze  in  the  pine. 

Jamie  ceased  the  clocklike  motion  of  his  body  to 
and  fro  over  the  difficult  lesson.  ''I  never  under 
stood  just  what  were  the  Erinnys,  sir?" 

"The  Erinnys?"  Strickland  laid  down  the  pen 
and  turned  in  his  chair.  "I'll  have  to  think  a 
moment,  to  get  it  straight  for  you,  Jamie.  .  .  .  The 
Erinnys  are  the  Fates  as  avengers.  They  are  the 
vengeance-demanding  part  of  ourselves  objectified, 
supernaturalized,  and  named.  Of  old,  where  injury 
was  done,  the  Erinnys  were  at  hand  to  pull  the  roof 
down  upon  the  head  of  the  injurer.  Their  office  was 
to  provide  unerringly  sword  for  sword,  bitter  cup  for 
bitter  cup.  They  never  forgot,  they  always  avenged, 
though  sometimes  they  took  years  to  do  it.  They 
esteemed  themselves,  and  were  esteemed,  essential  to 
the  moral  order.  They  are  the  dark  and  bitter  ex 
treme  of  justice,  given  power  by  the  imagination.  .  . . 
Do  you  think  that  you  know  the  chapter  now?" 

Jamie  achieved  his  recitation,  and  then  was  set 
to  mathematics.  The  tutor's  quill  drove  on  across 
the  page.  He  looked  up. 

"Mr.  Touris  has  come  to  Black  Hill?" 

Jamie  and  Alice  worshiped  interruptions. 

"He  has  twenty  carriers  bringing  fine  things  all 
the  time — " 

"Mother  is  going  to  take  me  when  she  goes  to 
see  Mrs.  Alison,  his  sister — " 

"He  is  going  to  spend  money  and  make  friends — " 

"Mother  says  Mrs.  Alison  was  most  bonny  when 

20 


FOES 

she  was  young,  but  England  may  have  spoiled 
her—" 

"The  minister  told  the  laird  that  Mr.  Touris  put 
fifty  pounds  in  the  plate — " 

Strickland  held  up  his  hand,  and  the  scholars, 
sighing,  returned  to  work.  Buzz,  buzz!  went  the 
bees  outside  the  window.  The  sun  climbed  high. 
Alexander  shut  his  geometry  and  came  through  the 
break  in  the  wall  and  across  the  span  of  green  to 
the  school-room. 

"That's  done,  Mr.  Strickland." 

Strickland  looked  at  the  paper  that  his  eldest 
pupil  put  before  him.  "Yes,  that  is  correct.  Do 
you  want,  this  morning,  to  take  up  the  reading?" 

"I  had  as  well,  I  suppose." 

"If  you  go  to  Edinburgh — if  you  do  as  your 
father  wishes  and  apply  yourself  to  the  law — you 
will  need  to  read  well  and  to  speak  well.  You  do 
not  do  badly,  but  not  well  enough.  So,  let's  begin!" 
He  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  from  the  bookshelf 
a  volume  bearing  the  title,  The  Treasury  of  Orators. 
"Try  what  you  please." 

Alexander  took  the  book  and  moved  to  the  un 
occupied  window.  Here  he  half  sat,  half  stood,  the 
morning  light  flowing  in  upon  him.  He  opened  the 
volume  and  read,  with  a  questioning  inflection,  the 
title  beneath  his  eyes,  "'The  Cranes  of  Ibycus'?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Strickland.  "That  is  a  short, 
graphic  thing." 

Alexander  read : 

"Ibycus,  who  sang  of  love,  material  and  divine,  in  Rhegium 
and  in  Samos,  would  wander  forth  in  the  world  and  make  his 

21 


FOES 

lyre  sound  now  by  the  sea  and  now  in  the  mountain.  Where 
soever  he  went  he  was  clad  in  the  favor  of  all  who  loved  song. 
He  became  a  wandering  minstrel-poet.  The  shepherd  loved  him, 
and  the  fisher;  the  trader  and  the  mechanic  sighed  when  he 
sang;  the  soldier  and  the  king  felt  him  at  their  hearts.  The  old 
returned  in  their  thoughts  to  youth,  young  men  and  maidens 
trembled  in  heavenly  sound  and  light.  You  would  think  that 
all  the  world  loved  Ibycus. 

"Corinth,  the  jeweled  city,  planned  her  chariot-races  and  her 
festival  of  song.  The  strong,  the  star-eyed  young  men,  traveled 
to  Corinth  from  mainland  and  from  island,  and  those  inner 
athletes  and  starry  ones,  the  poets,  traveled.  Great  feasting 
was  to  be  in  Corinth,  and  contests  of  strength  and  flights  of  song, 
and  in  the  theater,  representation  of  gods  and  men.  Ibycus,  the 
wandering  poet,  would  go  to  Corinth,  there  perhaps  to  receive 
a  crown. 

"Ibycus,  loved  of  all  who  love  song,  traveled  alone,  but  not 
alone.  Yet  shepherds,  or  women  with  their  pitchers  at  the 
spring,  saw  but  a  poet  with  a  staff  and  a  lyre.  Now  he  was  found 
upon  the  highroad,  and  now  the  country  paths  drew  him,  and 
the  solemn  woods  where  men  most  easily  find  God.  And  so  he 
approached  Corinth. 

"The  day  was  calm  and  bright,  with  a  lofty,  blue,  and  stainless 
sky.  The  heart  of  Ibycus  grew  warm,  and  there  seemed  a  brighter 
light  within  the  light  cast  by  the  sun.  Flower  and  plant  and 
tree  and  all  living  things  seemed  to  him  to  be  glistening  and 
singing,  and  to  have  for  him,  as  he  for  them,  a  loving  friendship. 
And,  looking  up  to  the  sky,  he  saw,  drawn  out  stringwise,  a  flight 
of  cranes,  addressed  to  Egypt.  And  between  his  heart  and  them 
ran,  like  a  rippling  path  that  the  sun  sends  across  the  sea,  a 
stream  of  good-will  and  understanding.  They  seemed  a  part  of 
himself,  winged  in  the  blue  heaven,  and  aware  of  the  part  of  him 
that  trod  earth,  that  was  entering  the  grave  and  shadowy  wood 
that  neighbored  Corinth. 

"The  cranes  vanished  from  overhead,  the  sky  arched  without 
stain.  Ibycus,  the  sacred  poet,  with  his  staff  and  his  lyre,  went 
on  into  the  wood.  Now  the  light  faded  and  there  was  green 
gloom,  like  the  depths  of  Father  Sea. 

"Now  robbers  lay  masked  in  the  wood — " 

22 


FOES 

Jamie  and  Alice  sat  very  still,  listening.  Strick 
land  kept  his  eyes  on  the  reading  youth. 

"Now  robbers  lay  masked  in  the  wood — violent  men  and 
treacherous,  watching  for  the  unwary,  to  take  from  them  goods 
and,  if  they  resisted,  life.  In  a  dark  place  they  lay  in  wait,  and 
from  thence  they  sprang  upon  Ibycus.  'What  hast  thou?  Part 
it  from  thyself  and  leave  it  with  us!' 

"  Ibycus,  who  could  sing  of  the  wars  of  the  Greeks  and  the 
Trojans  no  less  well  than  of  the  joys  of  young  love,  made  stand, 
held  close  to  him  his  lyre,  but  raised  on  high  his  staff  of  oak. 
Then  from  behind  one  struck  him  with  a  keen  knife,  and  he  sank, 
and  lay  in  his  blood.  The  place  was  the  edge  of  a  glade,  where  the 
trees  thinned  away  and  the  sky  might  be  seen  overhead.  And 
now,  across  the  blue  heaven,  came  a  second  line  of  the  south 
ward-going  cranes.  They  flew  low,  they  napped  their  wings,  and 
the  wood  heard  their  crying.  Then  Ibycus  the  poet  raised  his 
arms  to  his  brothers  the  birds.  'Ye  cranes,  flying  between  earth 
and  heaven,  avenge  shed  blood,  as  is  right!' 

"  Hoarse  screamed  the  cranes  flying  overhead.  Ibycus  the  poet 
closed  his  eyes,  pressed  his  lips  to  Mother  Earth,  and  died.  The 
cranes  screamed  again,  circling  the  wood,  then  in  a  long  line 
sailed  southward  through  the  blue  air  until  they  might  neither  be 
heard  nor  seen.  The  robbers  stared  after  them.  They  laughed, 
but  without  mirth.  Then,  stooping  to  the  body  of  Ibycus,  they 
would  have  rifled  it  when,  hearing  a  sudden  sound  of  men's 
voices  entering  the  wood,  they  took  violent  fright  and  fled." 

Strickland  looked  still  at  the  reader.  Alexander 
had  straightened  himself.  He  was  speaking  rather 
than  reading.  His  voice  had  intensities  and  shadows. 
His  brows  had  drawn  together,  his  eyes  glowed,  and 
he  stood  with  nostrils  somewhat  distended.  The 
emotion  that  he  plainly  showed  seemed  to  gather 
about  the  injury  done  and  the  appeal  of  Ibycus. 
The  earlier  Ibycus  had  not  seemed  greatly  to  in 
terest  him.  Strickland  was  used  to  stormy  youth, 

23 


FOES 

to  its  passional  moments,  sudden  glows,  burnings, 
sympathies,  defiances,  lurid  shows  of  effects  with 
the  causes  largely  unapparent.  It  was  his  trade  to 
know  youth,  and  he  had  a  psychologist's  interest. 
He  said  now  to  himself,  "  There  is  something  in  his 
character  that  connects  itself  with,  that  responds 
to,  the  idea  of  vengeance."  There  came  into  his 
memory  the  laird's  talk,  the  evening  of  Mr.  Touris's 
visit,  in  June.  Glenfernie,  who  would  have  wrestled 
with  Grierson  of  Lagg  at  the  edge  of  the  pit;  Glen 
fernie  's  mother  and  father,  who  might  have  had 
much  the  same  feeling;  their  forebears  beyond  them 
with  like  sensations  toward  the  Griersons  of  their 
day.  .  .  .  The  long  line  of  them — the  long  line  of 
mankind — injured  and  injurers.  .  .  . 


"Travelers  through  the  wood,  whose  voices  the  robbers  heard, 
found  Ibycus  the  poet  lying  upon  the  ground,  ravished  of  life. 
It  chanced  that  he  had  been  known  of  them,  known  and  loved. 
Great  mourning  arose,  and  vain  search  for  them  who  had  done 
this  wrong.  But  those  strong,  wicked  ones  were  gone,  fled  from 
their  haunts,  fled  from  the  wood  afar  to  Corinth,  for  the  god 
Pan  had  thrown  against  them  a  pine  cone.  So  the  travelers  took 
the  body  of  Ibycus  and  bore  it  with  them  to  Corinth. 

"A  poet  had  been  slain  upon  the  threshold  of  the  house  of  song. 
Sacred  blood  had  spattered  the  white  robes  of  a  queen  dressed 
for  jubilee.  Evil  unreturned  to  its  doers  must  darken  the  sun 
shine  of  the  famous  days.  Corinth  uttered  a  cry  of  lamentation 
and  wrath.  'Where  are  the  ill-doers,  the  spillers  of  blood,  that 
we  may  spill  their  blood  and  avenge  Ibycus,  showing  the  gods 
that  we  are  their  helpers?'  But  those  robbers  and  murderers 
might  not  be  found.  And  the  body  of  Ibycus  was  consumed 
upon  a  funeral  pyre. 

"  The  festival  hours  went  by  in  Corinth.  And  now  began  to  fill 
the  amphitheater  where  might  find  room  a  host  for  number  like 
the  acorns  of  Dodona.  The  throng  was  huge,  the  sound  that  it 


FOES 

made  like  the  shock  of  ocean.  Around,  tier  above  tier,  swept  the 
rows,  and  for  roof  there  was  the  blue  and  sunny  air.  Then  the 
voice  of  the  sea  hushed,  for  now  entered  the  many-numbered 
chorus.  Slow-circling,  it  sang  of  mighty  Fate:  'For  every  word 
shall  have  its  echo,  and  every  deed  shall  see  its  face.  The  word 
shall  say,  "Is  it  my  echo?"  and  the  deed  shall  say,  "Is  it  my 
face?"'— 

"The  chorus  passes,  singing.  The  voices  die,  there  falls  a 
silence,  sent  as  it  were  from  inner  space.  The  open  sky  is  above 
the  amphitheater.  And  now  there  comes,  from  north  to  south, 
sailing  that  sea  above,  high,  but  not  so  high  that  their  shape  is 
indistinguishable,  a  long  flight  of  cranes.  Heads  move,  eyes  are 
raised,  but  none  know  why  that  interest  is  so  keen,  so  still.  Then 
from  out  the  throng  rises,  struck  with  forgetfulness  of  gathered 
Corinth  and  of  its  own  reasons  for  being  dumb  as  is  the  stone,  a 
man's  voice,  arid  the  fear  that  Pan  gives  ran  yet  around  in  that 
voice.  'See,  brother,  see!  The  cranes  of  Ibycus!' 

" '  Ibycus!'  The  crowd  about  those  men  pressed  in  upon  them. 
'What  do  you  know  of  Ibycus?'  And  great  Pan  drove  them  to 
show  in  their  faces  what  they  knew.  So  Corinth  took — " 


Alexander  Jardine  shut  the  book  and,  leaving  the 
window,  dropped  it  upon  the  table.  His  hand  shook, 
his  face  was  convulsed.  "I've  read  as  far  as  needs 
be.  Those  things  strike  me  like  hammers!"  With 
suddenness  he  turned  and  was  gone. 

Strickland  was  aware  that  he  might  not  return 
that  day  to  the  school-room,  perhaps  not  to  the 
house.  He  went  out  of  the  west  door  and  across 
the  grassy  space  to  the  gap  in  the  wall,  through 
which  he  disappeared.  Beyond  was  the  rough 
descent  to  wood  and  stream. 

Jamie  spoke:    "He's  a  queer  body!    He  says  he 

thinks  that  he  lived  a  long  time  ago,  and  then  a 

shorter  time  ago,  and  then  now.     He  says  that  some 

days  he  sees  it  all  come  up  in  a  kind  of  dark  desert. '* 

3  25 


FOES 

Alice  put  in  her  word,  * '  Mother  says  he's  many  in 
one,  and  that  the  many  and  one  don't  yet  recog 
nize  each  other." 

"Your  mother  is  a  wise  woman,"  said  the  tutor. 
"Let  me  see  how  the  work  goes." 

The  pine-tree,  outside  the  wall,  overhung  a  rude 
natural  stairway  of  stony  ledge  and  outcropping 
root  with  patches  of  moss  and  heath.  Down  this 
went  Alexander  into  a  cool  dimness  of  fir  and  oak  and 
birch,  watered  by  a  little  stream.  He  kneeled  by 
this,  he  cooled  face  and  hands  in  the  water,  then 
flung  himself  beneath  a  tree  and,  burying  his  head 
in  his  arms,  lay  still.  The  waves  within  subsided, 
sank  to  a  long,  deep  swell,  then  from  that  to  quiet. 
The  door  that  wind  and  tide  had  beaten  open  shut 
again.  Alexander  lay  without  thinking,  without 
overmuch  feeling.  At  last,  turning,  he  opened  his 
eyes  upon  the  tree-tops  and  the  August  sky.  The 
door  was  shut  upon  tales  of  injury  and  revenge. 
Between  boy  and  man,  he  lay  in  a  yearning  stillness, 
colors  and  sounds  and  dim  poetic  strains  his  ministers 
of  grace.  This  lasted  for  a  time,  then  he  rose,  first 
to  a  sitting  posture,  then  to  his  feet.  Crows  flew 
through  the  wood;  he  had  a  glimpse  of  yellow  fields 
and  purple  heath.  He  set  forth  upon  one  of  the  long 
rambles  which  were  a  prized  part  of  life. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  stopped  at  a  cotter's,  some 
miles  from  home.  An  old  man  and  a  woman  gave 
him  an  oat  cake  and  a  drink  of  home-brewed.  He 
was  fond  of  folk  like  these — at  home  with  them  and 
they  with  him.  There  was  no  need  to  make  talk, 
but  he  sat  and  looked  at  the  marigolds  while  the 
woman  moved  about  and  the  old  man  wove  rushes 

26 


FOES 

into  mats.  From  here  he  took  to  the  hills  and 
walked  awhile  with  a  shepherd  numbering  his  sheep. 
Finally,  in  mid-afternoon,  he  found  himself  upon  a 
heath,  bare  of  trees,  lifted  and  purple. 

He  sat  down  amid  the  warm  bloom;  he  lay  down. 
Within  was  youth's  blind  tumult  and  longing,  a 
passioning  for  he  knew  not  what.  "I  wish  that 
there  were  great  things  in  my  life.  I  wish  that  I 
were  a  discoverer,  sailing  like  Columbus.  I  wish 
that  I  had  a  friend—" 

He  fell  into  a  day-dream,  lapped  there  in  warm 
purple  waves,  hearing  the  bees'  interminable  mur 
mur.  He  faced,  across  a  narrow  vale,  an  abrupt, 
curiously  shaped  hill,  dark  with  outstanding  granite 
and  with  fir-trees.  Where  at  the  eastern  end  it 
broke  away,  where  at  its  base  the  vale  widened, 
shone  among  the  lively  green  of  elms  turrets  and 
chimneys  of  a  large  house.  "  Black  Hill — Black 
Hill— Black  Hill " 

A  youth  of  about  his  own  age  came  up  the  path 
from  the  vale.  Alexander,  lying  amid  the  heath, 
caught  at  some  distance  the  whole  figure,  but  as  he 
approached  lost  him.  Then,  near  at  hand,  the 
head  rose  above  the  brow  of  the  ridge.  It  was  a 
handsome  head,  with  a  cap  and  feather,  with  gold- 
brown  hair  lightly  clustering,  and  a  countenance  of 
spirit  and  daring  with  something  subtle  rubbed  in. 
Head,  shoulders,  a  supple  figure,  not  so  tall  nor  so 
largely  made  as  was  Glenfernie's  heir,  all  came  upon 
the  purple  hilltop. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  LEXANDER  raised  himself  irom  his  couch  in 
**  the  heather. 

"Good  day!"  said  the  new-comer. 

"Good  day!" 

The  youth  stood  beside  him.    '  *  I  am  Ian  Rullock. ' ' 

"I  am  Alexander  Jardine." 

"Of  Glenfernie?" 

"Aye,  you've  got  it." 

"Then  we're  the  neighbors  that  are  to  be  friends." 

"If  we  are  to  be  we  are  to  be.  ...  I  want  a 
friend.  ...  I  don't  know  if  you're  the  one  that  is  to 
answer." 

The  other  dropped  beside  him  upon  the  heath. 
"I  saw  you  walking  along  the  hilltop.  So  when  you 
did  not  come  on  I  thought  I'd  climb  and  meet  you. 
This  is  a  lonely,  miserable  country!" 

Alexander  was  moved  to  defend.  "There  are 
more  miserable!  It's  got  its  points." 

"I  don't  see  them.     I  want  London!" 

' ' That's  Babylon. — It's  your  own  country.  You're 
evening  it  with  England!" 

"No,  I'm  not.  But  you  can't  deny  that  it's 
poor." 

"There's  one  of  its  sons,  named  Touris,  that  is 
not  poor!" 

28 


FOES 

Rullock  rose  upon  one  knee.  "The  wise  man  gets 
rich  and  the  fool  stays  poor.  Do  you  want  to  be 
friends  or  do  you  want  to  fight?" 

Alexander  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head  and 
lay  back  upon  the  earth.  "No,  I  do  not  want  to 
fight — not  now!  I  wouldn't  fight  you,  anyhow, 
for  standing  up  for  one  to  whom  you're  beholden." 

Silence  fell  between  them,  each  having  eyes  upon 
the  other.  Something  drew  each  to  each,  something 
repelled  each  from  each.  It  was  a  question,  be 
tween  those  forces,  which  would  gain.  Alexander 
did  not  feel  strange  with  Ian,  nor  Ian  with  Alex 
ander.  It  was  as  though  they  had  met  before. 
But  how  they  had  met  and  why,  and  where  and 
when,  and  what  that  meeting  had  entailed  and 
meant,  was  hidden  from  their  gaze.  The  attractive 
increased  over  the  repellent.  Ian  spoke. 

"There's  none  down  there  but  my  uncle  and  his 
sister,  my  aunt.  Come  on  down  and  let  me  show 
you  the  place." 

' '  I  do  not  care  if  I  do. ' '  He  rose,  and  the  two  went 
along  the  hilltop  and  down  the  path. 

Ian  was  the  readier  in  talk.  "I  am  going  soon 
to  Edinburgh — to  college." 

"I'm  going,  too.  The  first  of  the  year.  I  am 
going  to  try  if  I  can  stand  the  law." 

"I  want  to  be  a  soldier." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want. ...  I  want  to  journey 
• — and  journey — and  journey  .  .  .  with  a  book  along." 

"Do  you  like  books?" 

"Aye,  fine!" 

"I  like  them  right  well.  Are  there  any  pretty  girls 
around  here?" 

29 


FOES 

"I  don't  know.    I  don't  like  girls. " 

"I  like  them  at  times,  in  their  places.  You  must 
wrestle  bravely,  you're  so  strong  in  the  shoulder  and 
long  in  the  arm!" 

"  You're  not  so  big,  but  you  look  strong  yourself." 

Each  measured  the  other  with  his  eyes.  Friendship 
was  already  here.  It  was  as  though  hand  had  fitted 
into  glove. 

"What  is  your  dog  named?" 

"Hector." 

"Mine's  Bran.  You  come  to  Glenfernie  to-mor 
row  and  I'll  show  you  a  place  that's  all  mine.  It's 
the  room  in  the  old  keep.  I've  books  there  and  ap 
ples  and  nuts  and  curiosities.  There's  a  big  fireplace, 
and  my  father's  let  me  build  a  furnace  besides,  and 
I've  kettles  and  crucibles  and  pans  and  vials — " 

"What  for?" 

Alexander  paused  and  gazed  at  Ian,  then  gave 
into  his  keeping  the  great  secret.  "Alchemy.  I'm 
trying  to  change  lead  into  gold." 

Ian  thrilled.  "I'll  come!  I'll  ride  over.  I've  a 
beautiful  mare." 

"It's  not  eight  miles — " 

"I'll  come.  We're  just  in  at  Black  Hill,  you  see, 
and  I've  had  no  time  to  make  a  place  like  that! 
But  I'll  show  you  my  room.  Here's  the  park  gate." 

They  walked  up  an  avenue  overarched  by  elms, 
to  a  house  old  but  not  so  old,  once  half -ruinous,  but 
now  mended  and  being  mended,  enlarged,  and  deco 
rated,  the  aim  a  spacious  place  alike  venerable  and 
modern.  Workmen  yet  swarmed  about  it.  The 
whole  presented  a  busy,  cheerful  aspect — a  gracious 
one,  also,  for  under  a  monster  elm  before  the  terrace 

30 


FOES 

was  found  the  master  and  owner,  Mr.  Archibald 
Touris.  He  greeted  the  youths  with  a  manner  meant 
to  exhibit  the  expansive  heart  of  a  country  gentleman. 

''You've  found  each  other  out,  have  you?  Why, 
you  look  born  to  be  friends!  That's  as  it  should 
be. — And  what,  Alexander,  do  you  think  of  Black 
Hill?" 

"It  looks  finely  a  rich  man's  place,  sir.'* 

Mr.  Touris  laughed  at  his  country  bluntness,  but 
did  not  take  the  tribute  amiss.  "Not  so  rich — not 
so  mighty  rich.  But  enough,  enough!  If  Ian  here 
behaves  himself  he'll  have  enough !"  A  master  work 
man  called  him  away.  He  went  with  a  large  wave  of 
the  hand.  "Make  yourself  at  home,  Alexander! 
Take  him,  Ian,  to  see  your  aunt  Alison."  He  was 
gone  with  the  workman. 

"I'll  take  you  there  presently,"  said  Ian.  "I'm 
fond  of  Aunt  Alison — you'll  like  her,  too — but  she'll 
keep.  Let's  go  see  my  mare  Fatima,  and  then  my 
room." 

Fatima  was  a  most  beautiful  young,  snowy 
Arabian.  Alexander  sighed  with  delight  when  they 
led  her  out  from  her  stable  and  she  walked  about 
with  Ian  beside  her,  and  when  presently  Ian  mounted 
she  curveted  and  caracoled.  Ian  and  she  suited  each 
other.  Indefinably,  there  was  about  him,  too,  some 
thing  Eastern.  The  two  went  to  and  fro,  the  mare's 
hoofs  striking  music  from  the  flags.  Behind  them 
ran  a  gray  range  of  buildings  overtopped  by  bushy 
willows.  Alexander  sat  on  a  stone  bench,  hugged 
his  knees,  and  felt  true  love  for  the  sight.  Ian  had 
come  to  him  like  a  gift  from  the  blue. 

Ian  dismounted,  and  they  watched  Fatima  dis- 

31 


FOES 

appear  into  her  stall.  "Come  now  and  see  the 
house." 

The  house  was  large  and  cumbered  with  furniture 
too  much  and  too  rich  for  the  Scotch  countryside, 
lan's  room  had  a  great,  rich  bed  and  a  dressing-table 
that  drew  from  Alexander  a  whistle,  contemplative 
and  scornful.  But  there  were  other  matters  besides 
luxury  of  couch  and  toilet.  Slung  against  the  wall 
appeared  a  fine  carbine,  the  pistols  and  sword  of 
lan's  father,  and  a  wonderful  long,  twisted,  and 
damascened  knife  or  dirk — creese,  Ian  called  it — that 
had  come  in  some  trading-ship  of  his  uncle's.  And 
he  had  books  in  a  small  closet  room,  and  a  picture 
that  the  two  stood  before. 

" Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"There  was  an  Italian  who  owed  my  uncle  a  debt. 
He  had  no  money,  so  he  gave  him  this.  He  said  that 
it  was  painted  a  long  time  ago  and  that  it  was  very 
fine." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It  is  a  Bible  piece.  This  is  a  city  of  refuge.  This 
is  a  sinner  fleeing  to  it,  and  here  behind  him  is  the 
avenger  of  blood.  You  can't  see,  it  is  so  dark. 
There!"  He  drew  the  window -curtain  quite  aside. 
A  flood  of  light  came  in  and  washed  the  picture. 

"I  see.    What  is  it  doing  here?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  liked  it.  I  suppose  Aunt  Alison 
thought  it  might  hang  here." 

"I  like  to  see  pictures  in  my  mind.  But  things  like 
that  poison  me!  Let's  see  the  rest  of  the  house." 

They  went  again  through  lan's  room.  Coming  to 
a  fine  carved  ambry,  he  hesitated,  then  stood  still. 
"I'm  going  to  show  you  something  else !  I  show  it  to 

32 


FOES 

you  because  I  trust  you.  It's  like  your  telling  me 
about  your  making  gold  out  of  lead."  He  opened  a 
door  of  the  ambry,  pulled  out  a  drawer,  and,  pressing 
some  spring,  revealed  a  narrow,  secret  shelf.  His 
hand  went  into  the  dimness  and  came  out  bearing  a 
silver  goblet.  This  he  set  carefully  upon  a  neighbor 
ing  table,  and  looked  at  Alexander  somewhat  aslant 
out  of  long,  golden-brown  eyes. 

"It's  a  bonny  goblet,"  said  Alexander.  "Why  do 
you  keep  it  like  that?" 

Ian  looked  around  him.  "Years  and  years  ago 
my  father,  who  is  dead  now,  was  in  France.  There 
was  a  banquet  at  Saint-Germain.  A  very  great  per 
son  gave  it  and  was  in  presence  himself.  All  the  gen 
tlemen  his  guests  drank  a  toast  for  which  the  finest 
wine  was  poured  in  especial  goblets.  Afterward  each 
was  given  for  a  token  the  cup  from  which  he  drank. 
.  .  .  Before  he  died  my  father  gave  me  tr-Js.  But  of 
course  I  have  to  keep  it  secret.  My  uncle  and  all 
the  world  around  here  are  Whigs!" 

"James  Stewart!"  quoth  Alexander.     "Humph!" 

"Remember  that  you  have  not  seen  it,"  said  Ian, 
"and  that  I  never  said  aught  to  you  but  King  George, 
King  George!"  With  that  he  restored  the  goblet  to 
the  secret  shelf,  put  back  the  drawer,  and  shut  the 
ambry  door.  *  *  Friends  trust  one  another  in  little  and 
big. — Now  let's  go  see  Aunt  Alison." 

They  went  in  silence  along  a  corridor  where  every 
footfall  was  subdued  in  India  matting.  Alexander 
spoke  once : 

"I  feel  all  through  me  that  we're  friends.  But 
you're  a  terrible  fool  there!" 

"I  am  not,"  said  Ian.  His  voice  carried  the  truth 

33 


FOES 

of  his  own  feeling.  "I  am  like  my  father  and  mother 
and  the  chieftains  my  kin,  and  I  have  been  with  cer 
tain  kings  ever  since  there  were  kings.  Others  think 
otherwise,  but  I've  got  my  rights!" 

With  that  they  came  to  the  open  door  of  a  room. 
A  voice  spoke  from  within : 

"Ian!" 

Ian  crossed  the  threshold.  "May  we  come  in, 
Aunt  Alison?  It's  Alexander  Jardine  of  Glenfernie." 

A  tall,  three-leaved  screen  pictured  with  pagodas, 
palms,  and  macaws  stood  between  the  door  and  the 
rest  of  the  room.  "Come,  of  course!"  said  the  voice 
behind  this. 

Passing  the  last  pagoda  edge,  the  two  entered  a 
white-paneled  parlor  where  a  lady  in  dove-gray  mus 
lin  overlooked  the  unpacking  of  fine  china.  She 
turned  in  the  great  chair  where  she  sat.  "I  am  truly 
glad  to  see  Alexander  Jardine!"  When  he  went  up 
to  her  she  took  his  two  hands  in  hers.  "I  remember 
your  mother  and  how  fine  a  lassie  she  was!  Good 
mind  and  good  heart — " 

"We've  heard  of  you,  too,"  answered  Alexander. 
He  looked  at  her  in  frank  admiration,  Eh,  but  you're 
bonny!  written  in  his  gaze. 

Mrs.  Alison,  as  they  called  her,  was  something 
more  than  bonny.  She  had  loveliness.  More  than 
that,  she  breathed  a  cleanliness  of  spirit,  a  lucid 
peace,  a  fibered  self-mastery  passing  into  light. 
Alexander  did  not  analyze  his  feeling  for  her,  but  it 
was  presently  one  of  great  liking.  Now  she  sat  in 
her  great  chair  while  the  maids  went  on  with  the 
unpacking,  and  questioned  him  about  Glenfernie  and 
all  the  family  and  life  there.  She  was  slight,  not  tall, 

34 


FOES 

with  hair  prematurely  white,  needing  no  powder. 
She  sat  and  talked  with  her  hand  upon  Ian.  While 
she  talked  she  glanced  from  the  one  youth  to  the 
other.  At  last  she  said: 

"Alexander  Jardine,  I  love  Ian  dearly.  He  needs 
and  will  need  love — great  love.  If  you  are  going  to 
be  friends,  remember  that  love  is  bottomless. — And 
now  go,  the  two  of  you,  for  the  day  is  getting  on." 

They  passed  again  the  macaw-and-pagoda  screen 
and  left  the  paneled  room.  The  August  light  struck 
slant  and  gold.  The  two  quitted  the  house  and 
crossed  the  terrace  into  the  avenue  without  again 
encountering  the  master  of  the  place. 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  the  top  of  the  hill,"  said  Ian. 
They  climbed  the  ridge  that  was  like  a  purple  cloud. 
"I'll  come  to  Glenfernie  to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"Yes,  come!  I'm  fond  of  Jamie,  but  he's  three 
years  younger  than  I." 

"You've  got  a  sister?" 

"Alice?  She's  only  twelve.  You  come.  I've  been 
wanting  somebody. ' ' 

"So  have  I.     I'm  lonelier  than  you." 

They  came  to  the  level  top  of  the  heath.  The 
sun  rode  low;  the  shadow  of  the  hill  stretched  at 
their  feet,  out  over  path  and  harvest-field. 

"Good-by,   then!" 

"Good-by!" 

Ian  stood  still.  Alexander,  homeward  bound, 
dropped  over  the  crest.  The  earth  wave  hid  from 
him  Black  Hill,  house  and  all.  But,  looking  back, 
he  could  still  see  Ian  against  the  sky.  Then  Ian 
sank,  too.  Alexander  strode  on  toward  Glenfernie. 
He  went  whistling,  in  expanded,  golden  spirits. 

35 


FOES 

Ian — and  Ian — and  Ian!  Going  through  a  grove 
of  oaks,  blackbirds  flew  overhead,  among  and  above 
the  branches.  The  cranes  of  Ibycus!  The  phrase 
flashed  into  mind.  "I  wonder  why  things  like  that 
disturb  me  so!  ...  I  wonder  if  there's  any  bottom  or 
top  to  living  anyhow!  ...  I  wonder — !"  He  looked 
at  the  birds  and  at  the  violet  evening  light  at  play 
in  the  old  wood.  The  phrase  went  out  of  his  mind. 
He  left  the  remnant  of  the  forest  and  was  presently 
upon  open  moor.  He  whistled  again,  loud  and  clear, 
and  strode  on  happily.  Ian — and  Ian — and  Ian  I 


CHAPTER  V 

'"PHE  House  of  Glenfernie  and  the  House  of  Touris 
A  became  friends.  A  round  of  country  festivities, 
capped  by  a  great  party  at  Black  Hill,  wrought  bonds 
of  acquaintanceship  for  and  with  the  Scots  family 
returned  after  long  abode  in  England.  Archibald 
Touris  spent  money  with  a  cautious  freedom.  He 
set  a  table  and  poured  a  wine  better  by  half  than 
might  be  found  elsewhere.  He  kept  good  horses  and 
good  dogs.  Laborers  who  worked  for  him  praised 
him;  he  proved  a  not  ungenerous  landlord.  Where 
he  recognized  obligations  he  met  them  punctually. 
He  had  large  merchant  virtues,  no  less  than  the 
accompanying  limitations.  He  returned  to  the 
Church  of  Scotland. 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  and  the  laird  of  Black 
Hill  found  constitutional  impediments  to  their  being 
more  friendly  than  need  be.  Each  was  polite  to  the 
other  to  a  certain  point,  then  the  one  glowered  and 
the  other  scoffed.  It  ended  in  a  painstaking  keep 
ing  of  distance  between  them,  a  task  which,  when 
they  were  in  company,  fell  often  to  Mrs.  Jardine. 
She  did  it  with  tact,  with  a  twist  of  her  large,  hu 
morous  mouth  toward  Strickland  if  he  were  by. 
Admirable  as  she  was,  it  was  curious  to  see  the  dif 
ference  between  her  method,  if  method  there  were, 
and  that  of  Mrs.  Alison.  The  latter  showed  no 

37 


FOES 

effort,  but  where  she  was  there  fell  harmony. 
William  Jardine  liked  her,  liked  to  be  in  the  room 
with  her.  His  great  frame  and  her  slight  one,  his 
rough,  massive,  somewhat  unshaped  personality  and 
her  exquisite  clearness  contrasted  finely  enough. 
Her  brother,  who  understood  her  very  little,  yet 
had  for  her  an  odd,  appealing  affection,  strange  in 
one  who  had  so  positively  settled  what  was  life  and 
the  needs  of  life.  It  was  his  habit  to  speak  of  her 
as  though  she  were  more  helplessly  dependent  even 
than  other  women.  But  at  times  there  might  be 
seen  who  was  more  truly  the  dependent. 

August  passed  into  September,  September  into 
brown  October.  Alexander  and  Ian  were  almost 
continually  in  company.  The  attraction  between 
them  was  so  great  that  it  appeared  as  though  it 
must  stretch  backward  into  some  unknown  seam  of 
time.  If  they  had  differences,  these  apparently 
only  served  in  themselves  to  keep  them  revolving 
the  one  about  the  other.  They  might  almost  quar 
rel,  but  never  enough  to  drag  their  two  orbs  apart, 
breaking  and  rending  from  the  common  center. 
The  sun  might  go  down  upon  a  kind  of  wrath,  but 
it  rose  on  hearts  with  the  difference  forgotten. 
Their  very  unlikenesses  pricked  each  on  to  seek 
himself  in  the  other. 

They  were  going  to  Edinburgh  after  Christmas, 
to  be  students  there,  to  grow  to  be  men.  Here  at 
home,  upon  the  eve  of  their  going,  rein  upon  them 
was  slackened.  They  would  so  soon  be  independent 
of  home  discipline  that  that  independence  was  to 
a  degree  already  allowed.  Black  Hill  did  not  often 
question  lan's  comings  and  goings,  nor  Glenfernie 

38 


FOES 

Alexander's.  The  school-room  saw  the  latter  some 
part  of  each  morning.  For  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
might  be  almost  anywhere  with  Ian,  at  Glenfernie, 
or  at  Black  Hill,  or  on  the  road  between,  or  in  the 
country  roundabout.' 

William  Jardine,  chancing  to  be  one  day  at  Black 
Hill,  watched  from  Mrs.  Alison's  parlor  the  two 
going  down  the  avenue,  the  dogs  at  their  heels. 
"It's  a  fair  David  and  Jonathan  business!" 

"David  needed  Jonathan,  and  Jonathan  David." 

"Had  Jonathan  lived,  ma'am,  and  the  two  come 
to  conflict  about  the  kingdom,  what  then,  and  where 
would  have  flown  the  friendship?" 

"It  would  have  flown  on  high,  I  suppose,  and 
waited  for  them  until  they  had  grown  wings  to 
mount  to  it." 

"Oh,"  said  the  laird,  "you're  one  I  can  follow  only 
a  little  way!" 

Ian  and  Alexander  felt  only  that  the  earth  about 
them  was  bright  and  warm. 

On  a  brown-and-gold  day  the  two  found  themselves 
in  the  village  of  Glenfernie.  Ian  had  spent  the  night 
with  Alexander — for  some  reason  there  was  school 
holiday — the  two  were  now  abroad  early  in  the  day. 
The  village  sent  its  one  street,  its  few  poor  lanes, 
up  a  bare  hillside  to  the  church  atop.  Poor  and  rude 
enough,  it  had  yet  to-day  its  cheerful  air.  High  voices 
called,  flaxen-haired  children  pottered  about,  a  mill- 
wheel  creaked  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  iron  clanged  in 
the  smithy  a  little  higher,  the  drovers'  rough  laughter 
burst  from  the  tavern  midway,  and  at  the  height 
the  kirk  was  seeing  a  wedding.  The  air  had  a  tang 
of  cooled  wine,  the  sky  was  blue. 

39 


FOES 

Ian  and  Alexander,  coming  over  the  hill,  reached 
the  kirk  in  time  to  see  emerge  the  married  pair  with 
their  kin  and  friends.  The  two  stood  with  a  rabble 
of  children  and  boys  beneath  the  yew-trees  by  the 
gate.  The  yellow-haired  bride  in  her  finery,  the  yel 
low-haired  groom  in  his,  the  dressed  and  festive 
following,  stepped  from  the  kirkyard  to  some  waiting 
carts  and  horses.  The  most  mounted  and  took  place, 
the  procession  put  itself  into  motion  with  clatter  and 
laughter.  The  children  and  boys  ran  after  to  where 
the  road  dipped  over  the  hill.  A  cluster  of  village 
folk  turned  the  long,  descending  street.  In  passing 
they  spoke  to  Alexander  and  Ian. 

"Who  was  married? — Jock  Wilson  and  Janet 
Macraw,  o'  Langmuir." 

The  two  lounged  against  the  kirkyard  wall,  be 
neath  the  yews. 

"Marry!  That's  a  strange,  terrible,  useless  word 
to  me!" 

"I  don't  know  ..." 

"Yes,  it  is!  ...  Ian,  do  you  ever  think  that 
you've  lived  before?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'm  living  now!" 

"Well,  I  think  that  we  all  lived  before.  I  think 
that  the  same  things  happen  again — •" 

' '  Well,  let  them — some  of  them !"  said  Ian.  * '  Come 
along,  if  we're  going  through  the  glen." 

They  left  the  kirkyard  for  the  village  street.  Here 
they  sauntered,  friends  with  the  whole.  They  looked 
in  at  the  tavern  upon  the  drovers,  they  watched  the 
blacksmith  and  his  helper.  The  red  iron  rang,  the 
sparks  flew.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  flowed  the  stream 
and  stood  the  mill.  The  wheel  turned,  the  water 

40 


FOES 

diamonds  dropped  in  sheets.  Their  busy,  idle  day 
took  them  on ;  they  were  now  in  bare,  heathy  coun 
try  with  the  breathing,  winey  air.  Presently  White 
Farm  could  be  seen  among  aspens,  and  beyond  it  the 
wooded  mouth  of  the  glen.  Some  one,  whistling, 
turned  an  elbow  of  the  hill  and  caught  up  with  the 
two.  It  proved  to  be  one  several  years  their  senior, 
a  young  man  in  the  holiday  dress  of  a  prosperous 
farmer.  He  whistled  clearly  an  old  border  air  and 
walked  without  dragging  or  clumsiness.  Coming  up, 
he  ceased  his  whistling. 

"Good  day,  the  both  of  ye!" 

"It's  Robin  Greenlaw,"  said  Alexander,  "from 
Littlefarm. — You've  been  to  the  wedding,  Robin?" 

"Aye.  Janet's  some  kind  of  a  cousin.  It's  a  braw 
day  for  a  wedding!  You've  got  with  you  the  new 
laird's  nephew  ? — And  how  are  you  liking  Black  Hill  ?" 

"I  like  it." 

"I  suppose  you  miss  grandeurs  abune  what  ye've 
got  there.  I  have  a  liking  myself,"  said  Greenlaw, 
"for  grandeurs,  though  we've  none  at  all  at  Little- 
farm  !  That  is  to  say,  none  that's  just  obvious.  Are 
you  going  to  White  Farm?" 

Alexander  answered:  "I've  a  message  from  my 
father  for  Mr.  Barrow.  But  after  that  we're  going 
through  the  glen.  Will  you  come  along?" 

"I  would,"  said  Greenlaw,  seriously,  "if  I  had 
not  on  my  best.  But  I  know  how  you,  Alexander 
Jardine,  take  the  devil's  counsel  about  setting  foot 
in  places  bad  for  good  clothes!  So  I'll  give  myself 
the  pleasure  some  other  time.  And  so  good  day!" 
He  turned  into  a  path  that  took  him  presently  out 
of  sight  and  sound, 
4  41 


FOES 

"He's  a  fine  one!"  said  Alexander.     "I  like  him." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"White  Farm's  great-nephew.  Littlefarm  was 
parted  from  White  Farm.  It's  over  yonder  where 
you  see  the  water  shining." 

"He's  free-mannered  enough!" 

"That's  you  and  England!  He's  got  as  good  a 
pedigree  as  any,  and  a  notion  of  what's  a  man, 
besides.  He's  been  to  Glasgow  to  school,  too.  I 
like  folk  like  that." 

"I  like  them  as  well  as  you!"  said  Ian.  "That  is, 
with  reservations  of  them  I  cannot  like.  I'm  Scots, 
too." 

Alexander  laughed.  They  came  down  to  the 
water  and  the  stepping-stones  before  White  Farm. 
The  house  faced  them,  long  and  low,  white  among 
trees  from  which  the  leaves  were  falling.  Alexander 
and  Ian  crossed  upon  the  stones,  and  beyond  the 
fringing  hazels  the  dogs  came  to  meet  them. 

Jarvis  Barrow  had  all  the  appearance  of  a  figure 
from  that  Old  Testament  in  which  he  was  learned. 
He  might  have  been  a  prophet's  right-hand  man, 
he  might  have  been  the  prophet  himself.  He  stood, 
at  sixty-five,  lean  and  strong,  gray-haired,  but  with 
decrepitude  far  away.  Elder  of  the  kirk,  sternly 
religious,  able  at  his  own  affairs,  he  read  his  Bible 
and  prospered  in  his  earthly  living.  Now  he  lis 
tened  to  the  laird's  message,  nodding  his  head,  but 
saying  little.  His  staff  was  in  his  hand;  he  was  on 
his  way  to  kirk  session;  tell  the  laird  that  the  ac 
count  was  correct.  He  stood  without  his  door  as 
though  he  waited  for  the  youths  to  give  good  day 
and  depart.  Alexander  had  made  a  movement  in 

42 


FOES 

this  direction  when  from  beyond  Jarvis  Barrow  came 
a  woman's  voice.  It  belonged  to  Jenny  Barrow, 
the  farmer's  unmarried  daughter,  who  kept  house 
for  him. 

"Father,  do  you  gae  on,  and  let  the  young  gentle 
men  bide  a  wee  and  rest  their  banes  and  tell  a  puir 
woman  wha  never  gaes  onywhere  the  news!" 

"Then  do  ye  sit  awhile,  laddies,  with  the  women 
folk,"  said  Jarvis  Barrow.  "But  give  me  pardon 
if  I  go,  for  I  canna  keep  the  kirk  waiting." 

He  was  gone,  staff  and  gray  plaid  and  a  collie 
with  him.  Jenny,  his  daughter,  appeared  in  the 
door. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Alexander,  and  you,  too,  sir,  and 
have  a  crack  with  us!  We're  in  the  dairy-room, 
Elspeth  and  Gilian  and  me." 

She  was  a  woman  of  forty,  raw-boned  but  not  un 
handsome,  good-natured,  capable,  too,  but  with 
more  heart  than  head.  It  was  a  saying  with  her 
that  she  had  brains  enough  for  kirk  on  the  Sabbath 
and  a  warm  house  the  week  round.  Everybody 
knew  Jenny  Barrow  and  liked  well  enough  bread 
of  her  baking. 

The  room  to  which  she  led  Ian  and  Alexander  had 
its  floor  level  with  the  turf  without  the  open  door. 
The  sun  flooded  it.  There  came  from  within  the 
sound,  up  and  down,  of  a  churn,  and  a  voice  singing: 

"0  laddie,  will  ye  gie  to  me 
A  ribbon  for  my  fairing?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  grew  that  Ian  was  telling  stories  of  cities — of 
London  and  of  Paris,  for  he  had  been  there,  and 
of  Rome,  for  he  had  been  there.     He  had  seen  kings 
and  queens,  he  had  seen  the  Pope — • 

"Lord  save  us!"  ejaculated  Jenny  Barrow. 

He  leaned  against  the  dairy  wall  and  the  sun  fell 
over  him,  and  he  looked  something  finer  and  more 
golden  than  often  came  that  way.  Young  Gilian 
at  the  churn  stood  with  parted  lips,  the  long  dasher 
still  in  her  hands.  This  was  as  good  as  stories  of 
elves,  pixies,  fays,  men  of  peace  and  all!  Elspeth 
let  the  milk-pans  be  and  sat  beside  them  on  the 
long  bench,  and,  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
looked  with  brown  eyes  many  a  league  away. 
Neither  Elspeth  nor  Gilian  was  without  book 
learning.  Behind  them  and  before  them  were  long 
visits  to  scholar  kindred  in  a  city  in  the  north 
and  fit  schooling  there.  London  and  Paris  and 
Rome.  .  .  .  Foreign  lands  and  the  great  world. 
And  this  was  a  glittering  young  eagle  that  had 
sailed  and  seen! 

Alexander  gazed  with  delight  upon  Ian  spreading 
triumphant  wings.  This  was  his  friend.  There 
was  nothing  finer  than  continuously  to  come  upon 
praiseworthiness  in  your  friend! 

44 


FOES 

"And  a  beautiful  lady  came  by  who  was  the  king's 
favorite — " 

"Gude  guide  us!   The  limmer!" 

"And  she  was  walking  on  rose-colored  velvet  and 
her  slippers  had  diamonds  worked  in  them.  Snow 
was  on  the  ground  outside  and  poor  folk  were  freez 
ing,  but  she  carried  over  each  arm  a  garland  of  roses 
as  though  it  were  June — " 

Jenny  Barrow  raised  her  hands.  "She'll  sit  yet  in 
the  cauld  blast,  in  the  sinner's  shift!" 

"And  after  a  time  there  walked  in  the  king,  and 
the  courtiers  behind  him  like  the  tail  of  a  pea 
cock—" 

They  had  a  happy  hour  in  the  White  Farm  dairy. 
At  last  Jenny  and  the  girls  set  for  the  two  cold  meat 
and  bannocks  and  ale.  And  still  at  table  Ian  was  the 
shining  one.  The  sun  was  at  noon  and  so  was  his 
mood. 

"You're  fey!"  said  Alexander,  at  last. 

"Na,  na!"  spoke  Jenny.  "But,  oh,  he's  the  bonny 
lad!" 

The  dinner  was  eaten.     It  was  time  to  be  going. 

"Shut  your  book  of  stories!"  said  Alexander. 
"We're  for  the  Kelpie's  Pool,  and  that's  not  just  a 
step  from  here!" 

Elspeth  raised  her  brown  eyes.  "Why  will  you 
go  to  the  Kelpie's  Pool?  That's  a  drear  water!" 

"I  want  to  show  it  to  him.    He's  never  seen  it." 

"It's  drear!"  said  Elspeth.  "A  drear,  wanrestfu' 
place!" 

But  Ian  and  Alexander  must  go.  The  aunt  and 
nieces  accompanied  them  to  the  door,  stood  and 
watched  them  forth,  down  the  bank  and  into  the 

45 


FOES 

path  that  ran  to  the  glen.  Looking  back,  the  youths 
saw  them  there — Elspeth  and  Gilian  and  their  aunt 
Jenny.  Then  the  aspens  came  between  and  hid  them 
and  the  white  house  and  all. 

"They're  bonny  lasses!'*  said  Ian. 

"Aye.   They're  so." 

/'But,  oh,  man!  you  should  see  Miss  Delafield  of 
Tower  Place  in  Surrey!" 

"Is  she  so  bonny?" 

"She's  more  than  bonny.  She's  beautiful  and  high 
born  and  an  heiress.  When  I'm  a  colonel  of  dra 
goons —  " 

"Are  you  going  to  be  a  colonel  of  dragoons?" 

"Something  like  that.  You  talk  of  thinking  that 
you  were  this  and  that  in  the  past.  Well,  I  was  a 
fighting-man!" 

"We're  all  fighting-men.  It's  only  what  we  fight 
and  how." 

"Well,  say  that  I  had  been  a  chief,  and  they  lifted 
me  on  their  shields  and  called  me  king,  the  very  next 
day  I  should  have  made  her  queen!" 

"You  think  like  a  ballad.  Aiid,  oh,  man,  you  talk 
mickle  of  the  lasses!" 

Ian  looked  at  him  with  long,  narrow,  dark -gold 
eyes.  "They're  found  in  ballads,"  he  said. 

Alexander  just  paused  in  his  stride.  "Humph! 
that's  true!  ..." 

They  entered  the  glen.  The  stream  began  to 
brawl;  on  either  hand  the  hills  closed  in,  towering 
high.  Some  of  the  trees  were  bare,  but  to  most  yet 
clung  the  red-brown  or  the  gold-brown  dress.  The 
pines  showed  hard,  green,  and  dead  in  the  shadow; 
in  the  sunlight,  fine,  green-gold,  and  alive.  The 

46 


FOES 

fallen  leaves,  moved  by  foot  or  by  breeze,  made  a 
light,  dry,  talking  sound.  The  white  birch  stems 
clustered  and  leaned;  patches  of  bright-green  moss 
ran  between  the  drifts  of  leaves.  The  sides  of  the  hills 
came  close  together,  grew  fearfully  steep.  Crags 
appeared,  and  fern-crowded  fissures  and  roots  of 
trees  like  knots  of  frozen  serpents.  The  glen  nar 
rowed  and  deepened;  the  water  sang  with  a  loud, 
rough  voice. 

Alexander  loved  this  place.  He  had  known  it  in 
childhood,  often  straying  this  way  with  the  laird, 
or  with  Sandy  the  shepherd,  or  Davie  from  the 
house.  When  he  was  older  he  began  to  come  alone. 
Soon  he  came  often  alone,  learned  every  stick  and 
stone  and  contour,  effect  of  light  and  streak  of  gloom. 
As  idle  or  as  purposeful  as  the  wind,  he  knew  the 
glen  from  top  to  bottom.  He  knew  the  voice  of  the 
stream  and  the  straining  clutch  of  the  roots  over  the 
broken  crag.  He  had  lain  on  all  the  beds  of  leaf  and 
moss,  and  talked  with  every  creeping  or  flying  or 
running  thing.  Sometimes  he  read  a  book  here,  some 
times  he  pictured  the  world,  or  built  fantastic  stages, 
and  among  fantastic  others  acted  himself  a  fantastic 
part.  Sometimes  with  a  blind  turning  within  he 
looked  for  himself.  He  had  his  own  thoughts  of 
God  here,  of  God  and  the  Kirk  and  the  devil.  Often, 
too,  he  neither  read,  dreamed,  nor  thought.  He  might 
lie  an  hour,  still,  passive,  receptive.  The  trees  and 
the  clouds,  crag  life,  bird  life,  and  flower  life,  life  of 
water,  earth,  and  air,  came  inside.  He  was  so  used 
to  his  own  silence  in  the  glen  that  when  he  walked 
through  it  with  others  he  kept  it  still.  Slightly  taci 
turn  everywhere,  he  was  actively  so  here.  The  path 

47 


FOES 

narrowing,  he  and  Ian  must  go  in  single  file.  Leading, 
Alexander  traveled  in  silence,  and  Ian,  behind,  not 
familiar  with  the  place,  must  mind  his  steps,  and  so 
fell  silent,  too.  Here  and  there,  now  and  then, 
Alexander  halted.  These  were  recesses,  or  it  might 
be  projecting  platforms  of  rock,  that  he  liked.  Below, 
the  stream  made  still  pools,  or  moved  in  eddies,  or 
leaped  with  an  innumerable  hurrying  noise  from 
level  to  level.  Or  again  there  held  a  reach  of  quiet 
water,  and  the  glensides  were  soft  with  weeping  birch, 
and  there  showed  a  wider  arch  of  still  blue  sky. 
Alexander  stood  and  looked.  Ian,  behind  him,  was 
glad  of  the  pause.  The  place  dizzied  him  who  for 
years  had  been  away  from  hill  and  mountain,  pass 
and  torrent.  Yet  he  would  by  no  means  tell  Alex 
ander  so.  He  would  keep  up  with  him. 

There  was  a  mile  of  this  glen,  and  now  the  going 
was  worse  and  now  it  was  better.  Three-fourths  of 
the  way  through  they  came  to  an  opening  in  the 
rock,  over  which,  from  a  shelf  above,  fell  a  curtain 
of  brier. 

"See!"  said  Alexander,  and,  parting  the  stems, 
showed  a  veritable  cavern.  "Come  in — sit  down! 
The  Kelpie's  Pool  is  out  of  the  glen,  but  they  say 
that  there's  a  bogle  wons  here,  too." 

They  sat  down  upon  the  rocky  floor  strewn  with 
dead  leaves.  Through  the  dropped  curtain  they  saw 
the  world  brokenly ;  the  light  in  the  cave  was  sunken 
and  dim,  the  air  cold.  Ian  drew  his  shoulders  to 
gether. 

"Here's  a  grand  place  for  robbers,  wraiths,  or 
dragons!" 

"Robbers,  wraiths,  or  dragons,  or  just  quiet  dead 

48 


FOES 

leaves  and  ourselves.  Look  here — !"  He  showed 
a  heap  of  short  fagots  in  a  corner.  "I  put  these 
here  the  last  time  I  came."  Dragging  them  into 
the  middle  of  the  rock  chamber,  he  swept  up  with 
them  the  dead  leaves,  then  took  from  a  great 
pouch  that  he  carried  on  his  rambles  a  box  with 
flint  and  steel.  He  struck  a  spark  upon  dry  moss 
and  in  a  moment  had  a  fire.  "Is  not  that  beau 
tiful?" 

The  smoke  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  cavern, 
curled  there  or  passed  out  into  the  glen  through 
the  briers  that  dropped  like  a  portcullis.  The  fagots 
crackled  in  the  flame,  the  light  danced,  the  warmth 
was  pleasant.  So  was  the  sense  of  adventure  and 
of  solitude  d  deux.  They  stretched  themselves  be 
side  the  flame.  Alexander  produced  from  his  pouch 
four  small  red-cheeked  apples.  They  ate  and  talked, 
with  between  their  words  silences  of  deep  content. 
They  were  two  comrade  hunters  of  long  ago,  cave 
men  who  had  dispossessed  bear  or  wolf,  who  might 
presently  with  a  sharpened  bone  and  some  red 
pigment  draw  bison  and  deer  in  procession  upon  the 
cave  wall. — They  were  skin-clad  hillmen,  shag- 
haired,  with  strange,  rude  weapons,  in  hiding  here 
after  hard  fighting  with  a  disciplined,  conquering  foe 
who  had  swords  and  shining  breastplates  and  crested 
helmets. — They  were  fellow-soldiers  of  that  con 
quering  tide,  Romans  of  a  band  that  kept  the  Wall, 
proud,  with  talk  of  camps  and  Caesars. — They  were 
knights  of  Arthur's  table  sent  by  Merlin  on  some 
magic  quest. — They  were  Crusaders,  and  this  cav 
ern  an  Eastern,  desert  cave. — They  were  men  who 
rose  with  Wallace,  must  hide  in  caves  from  Edward 

49 


FOES 

Longshanks. — They  were  outlaws. — They  were  wiz 
ards — good  wizards  who  caused  flowers  to  bloom  in 
winter  for  the  unhappy,  and  made  gold  here  for 
those  who  must  be  ransomed,  and  fed  themselves 
with  secret  bread.  The  fire  roared  —  they  were 
happy,  Ian  and  Alexander. 

At  last  the  fagots  were  burned  out.  The  half- 
murk  that  at  first  was  mystery  and  enchantment 
began  to  put  on  somberness  and  melancholy.  They 
rose  from  the  rocky  floor  and  extinguished  the 
brands  with  their  feet.  But  now  they  had  this 
cavern  in  common  and  must  arrange  it  for  their 
next  coming.  Going  outside,  they  gathered  dead 
and  fallen  wood,  broke  it  into  right  lengths,  and, 
carrying  it  within,  heaped  it  in  the  corner.  With  a 
bough  of  pine  they  swept  the  floor,  then,  leaving 
the  treasure  hold,  dropped  the  curtain  of  brier  in 
place.  They  were  not  so  old  but  that  there  was 
yet  the  young  boy  in  them;  he  hugged  himself  over 
this  cave  of  Robin  Hood  and  swart  magician.  But 
now  they  left  it  and  went  on  whistling  through  the 
glen: 

Gie  ye  give  ane,  then  I'll  give  twa, 
For  sae  the  store  increases! 

The  sides  of  the  glen  fell  back,  grew  lower.  The 
leap  of  the  water  was  not  so  marked;  there  were 
long  pools  of  quiet.  Their  path  had  been  a  mount 
ing  one;  they  were  now  on  higher  earth,  near  the 
plateau  or  watershed  that  marked  the  top  of  the 
glen.  The  bright  sky  arched  overhead,  the  sun 
shone  strongly,  the  air  moved  in  currents  without 
violence. 

So 


FOES 

"You  see  where  that  smoke  comes  up  between 
trees?  That's  Mother  Binning's  cot." 

"Who's  she?" 

"She's  a  wise  auld  wife.  She's  a  scryer.  That's 
her  ash- tree." 

Their  path  brought  them  by  the  hut  and  its  bit 
of  garden.  Jock  Binning,  that  was  Mother  Bin 
ning's  crippled  son,  sat  fishing  in  the  stream.  Mother 
Binning  had  been  working  in  the  garden,  but  when 
she  saw  the  figures  on  the  path  below  she  took  her 
distaff  and  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  sun.  When  they 
came  by  she  raised  her  voice. 

"Mr.  Alexander,  how  are  the  laird  and  the  leddy?" 

"They're  very  well,  Mother." 

"Ye'll  be  gaeing  sune  to  Edinburgh?  Wha  may 
be  this  laddie?" 

"It  is  Ian  Rullock,  of  Black  Hill." 

"Sae  the  baith  o'  ye  are  gaeing  to  Edinburgh? 
Will  ye  be  friends  there?" 

"That  we  will!" 

"Hech,  sirs!"  Mother  Binning  drew  a  thread 
from  her  distaff.  The  two  were  about  to  travel  on 
when  she  stopped  them  again  with  a  gesture. 
* '  Dinna  mak  sic  haste !  There's  time  enough  behind 
us,  and  time  enough  before  us.  And  it's  a  strange 
Vvarld,  and  a  large,  and  an  auld!  Sit  ye  and  crack 
a  bit  with  an  auld  wife  by  the  road." 

But  they  had  dallied  at  White  Farm  and  in  the 
cave,  and  Alexander  was  in  haste. 

"We  cannot  stop  now,  Mother.  We're  bound  for 
the  Kelpie's  Pool." 

"And  why  do  ye  gae  there?  That's  a  drear,  wan- 
restfu'  place!"  said  Mother  Binning. 


FOES 

"Ian  has  not  seen  it  yet.  I  want  to  show  it  to 
him." 

Mother  Binning  turned  her  distaff  slowly.  "Eh, 
then,  if  ye  maun  gae,  gae ! .  .  .  We're  a'  ane !  There's 
the  kelpie  pool  for  a'." 

"We'll  stop  a  bit  on  the  way  back,"  said  Alexan 
der.  He  spoke  in  a  wheedling,  kindly  voice,  for 
he  and  Mother  Binning  were  good  friends. 

"Do  that  then,"  she  said.  "I  hae  a  hansel  o' 
coffee  by  me.  I'll  mak  twa  cups,  for  I'll  warrant 
that  ye'll  baith  need  it!" 

The  air  was  indeed  growing  colder  when  the  two 
came  at  last  upon  the  moor  that  ran  down  to  the 
Kelpie's  Pool.  Furze  and  moss  and  ling,  a  wild 
country  stretched  around  without  trees  or  house  or 
moving  form.  The  bare  sunshine  took  on  a  remote, 
a  cool  and  foreign,  aspect.  The  small  singing  of 
the  wind  in  whin  and  heather  came  from  a  thin, 
eery  world.  Down  below  them  they  saw  the  dark 
little  tarn,  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  It  was  very  clear, 
but  dark,  with  a  bottom  of  peat.  Around  it  grew 
rushes  and  a  few  low  willows.  The  two  sat  upon  an 
outcropping  of  stone  and  gazed  down  upon  it. 

"It's  a  gey  lonely  place,"  said  Alexander.  "Now 
I  like  it  as  well  or  better  than  I  do  the  cave,  and 
now  I  would  leave  it  far  behind  me!" 

"I  like  the  cave  best.     This  is  a  creepy  place." 

"Once  I  let  myself  out  at  Glenfernie  without  any 
knowing  and  came  here  by  night." 

Ian  felt  emulation.  "Oh,  I  would  do  that,  too, 
if  there  was  any  need!  Did  you  see  anything?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  kelpie?" 

"Yes." 

52 


FOES 

"No.  I  saw  something — once.  But  that  time  I 
wanted  to  see  how  the  stars  looked  in  the  water." 

Ian  looked  at  the  water,  that  lay  like  a  round 
mirror,  and  then  to  the  vast  shell  of  the  sky  above. 
He,  too,  had  love  of  beauty — a  more  sensuous  love 
than  Alexander's,  but  love.  This  shared  perception 
made  one  of  the  bonds  between  them. 

4 'It  was  as  still — much  stiller  than  it  is  to-day! 
The  air  was  clear  and  the  night  dark  and  grand. 
I  looked  down,  and  there  was  the  Northern  Crown, 
clasp  and  all." 

Ian  in  imagination  saw  it,  too.  They  sat,  chin 
on  knees,  upon  the  moorside  above  the  Kelpie's 
Pool.  The  water  was  faintly  crisped,  the  reeds  and 
willow  boughs  just  stirred. 

''But  the  kelpie — did  you  ever  see  that?" 

"Sometimes  it  is  seen  as  a  water-horse,  sometimes 
as  a  demon.  I  never  saw  anything  like  that  but 
once.  I  never  told  any  one  about  it.  It  may  have 
been  just  one  of  those  willows,  after  all.  But  I 
thought  I  saw  a  woman." 

"Goon!" 

"There  was  a  great  mist  that  day  and  it  was  hard 
to  see.  Sometimes  you  could  not  see — it  was  just 
rolling  waves  of  gray.  So  I  stumbled  down,  and  I 
was  in  the  rushes  before  I  knew  that  I  had  come  to 
them.  It  was  spring  and  the  pool  was  full,  and  the 
water  plashed  and  came  over  my  foot.  It  was  like 
something  holding  my  ankles.  .  .  .  And  then  I  saw 
her — if  it  was  not  the  willow.  She  was  like  a  fair 
woman  with  dark  hair  unsnooded.  She  looked  at 
me  as  though  she  would  mock  me,  and  I  thought 
she  laughed — and  then  the  mist  rolled  down  and 

53 


FOES 

over,  and  I  could  not  see  the  hills  nor  the  water  not 
scarce  the  reeds  I  was  in.  So  I  lifted  my  feet  from 
the  sucking  water  and  got  away.  ...  I  do  not  know 
if  it  was  the  kelpie's  daughter  or  the  willow — but  if 
it  was  the  willow  it  could  look  like  a  human — or 
an  unhuman — body!" 

Ian  gazed  at  the  pool.  He  had  many  advan 
tages  over  Alexander,  he  knew,  but  the  latter  had 
this  curious  daring.  He  did  more  things  with  him 
self  and  of  himself  than  did  he,  Ian.  There  was 
that  in  Ian  that  did  not  like  this,  that  was  jealous 
of  being  surpassed.  And  there  was  that  in  Ian 
that  would  not  directly  display  this  feeling,  that 
would  provide  it,  indeed,  with  all  kinds  of  masks, 
but  would,  with  certainty,  act  from  that  spurring, 
though  intricate  enough  might  be  the  path  between 
the  stimulus  and  the  act. 

"It  is  deep?" 

"Aye.  Almost  bottomless,  you  would  think,  and 
cold  as  winter." 

"Let  us  go  swimming." 

"The  day's  getting  late  and  it's  growing  cold. 
However,  if  you  want  to — " 

Ian  did  not  greatly  want  to.  But  if  Alexander 
could  be  so  indifferent,  he  could  be  determined  and 
ardent.  "What's  a  little  mirk  and  cold?  I  want 
to  say  I've  swum  in  it."  He  began  to  unbutton 
his  waistcoat. 

They  stripped,  left  their  clothes  in  the  stone's 
keeping,  and  ran  down  the  moorside.  The  light 
played  over  their  bodies,  unblemished,  smooth,  and 
healthfully  colored,  clean-lined  and  rightly  spare. 
They  had  beautiful  postures  and  movements  when 

54 


FOES 

they  stood,  when  they  ran;  a  youthful  and  austere 
grace  as  of  Spartan  youth  plunging  down  to  the 
icy  Eurotas.  The  earth  around  lay  as  stripped  as 
they;  the  naked,  ineffable  blue  ether  held  them  as 
it  did  all  things;  the  wandering  air  broke  against 
them  in  invisible  surf.  They  ran  down  the  long 
slope  of  the  moor,  parted  the  reeds,  and  dived  to 
meet  their  own  reflections.  The  water  was  most 
truly  deep  and  cold.  They  struck  out,  they  swam 
to  the  middle  of  the  pool,  they  turned  upon  their 
backs  and  looked  up  to  the  blue  zenith,  then,  turn 
ing  again,  with  strong  arm  strokes  they  sent  the 
wave  over  each  other.  They  rounded  the  pool 
under  the  twisted  willows,  beside  the  shaking  reeds; 
they  swam  across  and  across. 

Alexander  looked  at  the  sun  that  was  deep  in  the 
western  quarter.  "Time  to  be  out  and  going!"  He 
-swam  to  the  edge  of  the  pool,  but  before  he  should 
draw  himself  out  stopped  to  look  up  at  a  willow  above 
him,  the  one  that  he  thought  he  might,  in  the  mist, 
have  taken  for  the  kelpie's  daughter.  It  was  of  a 
height  that,  seen  at  a  little  distance,  might  even  a  tall 
woman.  It  put  out  two  broken,  shortened  branches 
like  arms.  .  . .  He  lost  himself  in  the  study  of  possibil 
ities,  balanced  among  the  reeds  that  sighed  around. 
He  could  not  decide,  so  at  last  he  shook  himself  from 
that  consideration,  and,  pushing  into  shallow  water, 
stepped  from  the  pool.  He  had  taken  a  few  steps 
up  the  moor  ere  with  suddenness  he  felt  that  Ian 
was  not  with  him.  He  turned.  Ian  was  yet  out  in 
the  middle  ring  of  the  tarn.  The  light  struck  upon 
his  head.  Then  he  dived  under — or  seemed  to*  dive 
under.  He  was  long  in  coming  up;  and  when  he 

55 


FOES 

did  so  it  was  in  the  same  place  and  his  backward- 
drawn  face  had  a  strangeness. 

"Ian!" 

Ian  sank  again. 

'  'He's  crampit!"  Alexander  flashed  like  a  thrown 
brand  down  the  way  he  had  mounted  and  across  the 
strip  of  weeds,  and  in  again  to  the  steel-dark  water. 
"I'm  coming!"  He  gained  to  his  fellow,  caught  him 
ere  he  sank  the  third  time. 

Dragged  from  the  Kelpie's  Pool,  Ian  lay  upon  the 
moor.  Alexander,  bringing  with  haste  the  clothes 
from  the  stone  above,  knelt  beside  him,  rubbed 
and  kneaded  the  life  into  him.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

"Alexander—!" 

Alexander  rubbed  with  vigor.  "I'm  here.  Eh, 
lad,  but  you  gave  me  a  fright!" 

In  another  five  minutes  he  sat  up.  "I'm — I'm  all 
right  now.  Let's  get  our  things  on  and  go." 

They  dressed,  Alexander  helping  Ian.  The  blood 
came  slowly  back  into  the  latter's  cheek ;  he  walked, 
but  he  shivered  yet. 

"Let's  go  get  Mother  Binning's  coffee!"  said 
Alexander.  "Come,  I'll  put  my  arm  about  you  so." 
They  went  thus  up  the  moor  and  across,  and  then 
down  to  the  trees,  the  stream,  and  the  glen.  "There's 
the  smoke  from  her  chimney!  You  may  have  both 
cups  and  lie  by  the  fire  till  you're  warm.  Mercy  me ! 
how  lonely  the  cave  would  have  been  if  you  had 
drowned!" 

They  got  down  to  the  flowing  water. 

"I'm  all  right  now!"  said  Ian.  He  released  him 
self,  but  before  he  did  so  he  turned  in  Alexander's 
arm,  put  his  own  arm  around  the  other's  neck,  and 

56 


FOES 

kissed  him.     "You  saved  my  life.    Let*s.  be  friends 
forever!" 

"That's  what  we  are,"  said  Alexander,  " friends, 
forever." 

"You've  proved  it  to  me;   one  day  I'll  prove  it 
to  you!" 

"We  don't  need  proofs.    We  just  know  that  we 
like  each  other,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it!" 

"Yes,  it's  that  way,"  said  Ian,  and  so  they  came, 
to  Mother  Binning's  cot,  the  fire,  and  thq  coffee, 
5 


CHAPTER  VII 

UPON  a  quiet,  gray  December  afternoon,  nine 
years  and  more  from  the  June  day  when  he 
had  fished  in  the  glen  and  Mother  Binning  had  told 
him  of  her  vision  of  the  Jacobite  gathering  at  Brae- 
mar,  English  Strickland,  walking  for  exercise  to  the 
village  and  back,  found  himself  overtaken  by  Mr. 
M'Nab,  the  minister  who  in  his  white  manse  dwelt  by 
the  white  kirk  on  the  top  of  the  windy  hill.  This 
was,  by  every  earthly  canon,  a  good  man,  but  a  stern 
and  unsupple.  He  had  not  been  long  in  this  parish, 
and  he  was  sweeping  with  a  strong,  new  besom. 
The  old  minister,  to  his  mind,  had  been  Erastian  and 
lax,  weak  in  doctrine  and  in  discipline  of  the  fold. 
Mr.  M'Nab  meant  not  to  be  weak.  He  loathed  sin 
and  would  compel  the  sinner  also  to  loathe  it.  Now 
he  came  up,  tall  and  darkly  clad,  and  in  his  Cal- 
vinistic  hand  his  Bible. 

"Gudeday,  sir!" 

"Good  day,  Mr.  M'Nab!"  The  two  went  on  side 
by  side.  The  day  was  very  still,  the  sky  an  even 
gray,  snow  being  prepared.  "You  saw  the  laird?" 

"Aye.   He's  verra  low." 

"He'll  not  recover  I  think.  It's  been  a  slow 
failing  for  two  years  —  ever  since  Mrs.  Jardine's 
death." 

58 


FOES 

4 'She  was  dead  before  I  came  to  this  kirk.  But 
once,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I  stayed  awhile  in 
these  parts.  I  remember  her." 

"She  was  the  best  of  women." 

"So  they  said.  But  she  had  not  that  grip  upon 
religion  that  the  laird  has!" 

"Maybe  not." 

Mr.  M'Nab  directed  his  glance  upon  the  Glen- 
fernie  tutor.  He  did  not  think  that  this  English 
man,  either,  had  much  grip  upon  religion.  He 
determined,  at  the  first  opportunity,  to  call  his 
attention  to  that  fact  and  to  strive  to  teach  his 
fingers  how  to  clasp.  He  had  a  craving  thirst  for 
the  saving  of  souls,  and  to  draw  one  whole  from 
Laodicea  was  next  best  to  lifting  from  Babylon. 
But  to-day  the  laird  and  his  spiritual  concerns  had 
the  field. 

"He  comes,  by  the  mother's  side,  at  least,  of  godly 
stock.  His  mother's  father  was  martyred  for  the 
faith  in  the  auld  persecuting  time.  His  grand 
mother  wearied  her  mind  away  in  prison.  His 
mother  suffered  much  when  she  was  a  lassie." 

"It's  small  wonder  that  he  has  nursed  bitter 
ness,"  said  Strickland.  "He  must  have  drunk  in 
terror  and  hate  with  her  milk.  .  .  .  He  conquered  the 
terror." 

'"Do  not  I  hate  them,  O  Lord,  that  hate  thee?  and 
am  not  I  grieved  with  those  that  rise  up  against  thee? 
I  hate  them  with  perfect  hatred;  I  count  them  my 
enemies.' — What  else  should  his  heart  do  but  burn 
with  a  righteous  wrath?" 

Strickland  sighed,  looking  at  the  quiet  gray  hills 
and  the  vast,  still  web  of  cloud  above.  "It's  come 

59 


FOES 

to  be  a  withering  fire,  hunting  fuel  everywhere!  I 
remember  when  he  held  it  in  bounds,  even  when  for 
a  time  it  seemed  to  die  out.  But  of  late  years  it 
has  got  the  better  of  him.  At  last,  I  think,  it  is 
devouring  himself." 

M'Nab  made  a  dissenting  sound.  "He  has  got 
the  implicit  belief  in  God  that  I  see  sair  lack  of  else 
where!  He  holds  fast  to  God." 

"Aye.     The  God  who  slays  the  Amalekites." 

M'Nab  turned  his  wintry  glance  upon  him. 
"And  is  not  that  God?" 

The  other  looked  at  the  hill  and  at  the  vast,  quiet, 
gray  field  of  cloud.  "Perhaps!  .  .  .  Let's  talk  of 
something  else.  I  am  too  tired  to  argue.  I  sat 
up  with  him  last  night." 

The  minister  would  have  preferred  to  continue 
to  discuss  the  character  of  Deity.  He  turned 
heavily.  "I  was  in  company,  not  long  ago,  with 
some  gentlemen  who  were  wondering  why  you 
stayed  on  at  Glenfernie  House.  They  said  that 
you  had  good  offers  elsewhere — much  better  than 
with  a  Scots  laird." 

"I  promised  Mrs.  Jardine  that  I  would  stay." 

"While  the  laird  lived?" 

"No,  not  just  that — though  I  think  that  she 
would  have  liked  me  to  do  so.  But  so  long  as  the 
laird  would  keep  Jamie  with  him  at  home." 

"What  will  he  do  now — Jamie?" 

"He  has  set  his  heart  on  the  army.  He's  strong 
of  body,  with  a  kind  of  big,  happy-go-luckiness — " 

A  horseman  came  up  behind  them.  It  proved 
to  be  Robin  Greenlaw,  of  Littlefarm.  He  checked 
his  gray  and  exchanged  greetings  with  the  minister 

60 


FOES 

and  the  tutor.     "How  does  the  laird  find  himself 
the  day?"  he  asked  Strickland. 

"No  better,  I  think,  Mr.  Greenlaw." 

"I'm  sorry.  It's  the  end,  I  jalouse!  Is  Mr» 
Alexander  come?" 

"We  look  for  him  to-morrow." 

"The  land  and  the  folk  '11  be  blithe  to  see  him — 
if  it  was  not  for  the  occasion  of  his  coming!  If 
there's  aught  a  body  can  do  for  any  at  Glen- 
fernie—  ?" 

"Every  one  has  been  as  good  as  gold,  Greenlaw. 
But  you  know  there's  not  much  at  the  last  that  can 
be  done—" 

"No.  We  all  pass,  and  they  that  bide  can  but 
make  the  dirge.  But  I'll  be  obliged  if  you'll  say 
to  Mr.  Alexander  that  if  there  is  aught — "  He 
gathered  up  the  reins.  "It  will  be  snowing  pres 
ently.  I  always  thought  that  I'd  like  to  part  on  a 
day  like  this,  gray  and  quiet,  with  all  the  color  and 
the  shouting  lifted  elsewhere."  He  was  gone, 
frotting  before  them  on  his  big  horse. 

Strickland  and  the  minister  looked  after  him. 
"There's  one  to  be  liked  no  little!"  said  Strickland. 

But  Mr.  M'Nab's  answering  tone  was  wintry  yet. 
"He  makes  mair  songs  than  he  listens  to  sermons! 
Jarvis  Barrow,  that's  a  strong  witness,  should  have 
had  another  sort  of  great-nephew!  And  so  he  that 
will  be  laird  comes  home  to-morrow  ?  It's  little  that, 
he  has  been  at  home  of  late  years." 

"Yes,  little." 

The  manse  with  the  kirk  beyond  rose  before  them, 
drawn  against  the  pallid  sky.  "A  wanderer  to  and 
fro  in  the  earth,  and  I  doubt  not — though  we  do  not 

61 


FOES 

hear  much  of  it — an  eater  of  husks! — Will  you  not 
come  in,  Mr.  Strickland?'1 

"Another  time,  Mr.  M'Nab.  I've  an  errand  in  the 
village. — Touching  Alexander  Jardine.  I  suppose 
that  the  whole  sense-bound  world  might  be  called  by 
a  world  farther  on  an  eater  of  husks.  But  I  know 
naught  to  justify  any  especial  application  of  the 
phrase  to  him.  I  know,  indeed,  a  good  deal  quite  to 
the  contrary.  You  are,  it  seems  to  me,  something 
less  than  charitable — " 

M'Nab  regarded  him  with  an  earnest,  narrow, 
wintry  look.  "I  would  not  wish  to  deserve  that  epi 
thet,  Mr.  Strickland.  But  the  world  is  evil,  and  Satan 
stands  close  at  the  ear  of  the  young,  both  the  poor 
and  them  of  place  and  world's  gear !  So  I  doubt  not 
that  he  eats  the  husks.  I  doubt  not,  either,  that  the 
Lord  has  a  rod  for  him,  as  for  us  all,  that  will  drive 
him,  willy-nilly,  home.  So  I'll  say  good  day,  sir. 
To-morrow  I'll  go  again  to  the  laird,  and  so  every 
day  until  his  summons  comes." 

They  parted  at  the  manse  door.  The  world  was 
gray,  the  snow  swiftening  its  approach.  Strickland, 
passing  the  kirk,  kept  on  down  the  one  village  street. 
All  and  any  who  were  out  of  doors  spoke  to  him, 
asking  how  did  the  laird.  Some  asked  if  "the  young 
laird"  had  come. 

In  the  shop  where  he  made  his  purchase  the  woman 
who  sold  would  have  kept  him  talking  an  hour: 
"Wad  the  laird  last  the  week?  Wad  he  make  friends 
before  he  died  with  Mr.  Touris  of  Black  Hill  with 
whom  he  had  the  great  quarrel  three  years  since? 
Eh,  sirs !  and  he  never  set  foot  again  in  Touris  House, 
nor  Mr.  Touris  in  his ! — Wad  Mr.  Jamie  gae  now  to 

62 


FOES 

Edinburgh  or  on  his  travels,  that  had  been  at  home 
sae  lang  because  the  laird  wadna  part  with  him? — 
Wad  Miss  Alice,  that  was  as  bonny  as  a  rose  and 
mair  friendly  than  the  gowans  on  a  June  lea,  just 
bide  on  at  the  house  with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Grizel.  that 
came  when  the  leddy  died?  Wad — " 

Strickland  smiled.  "You  must  just  come  up  to  the 
house,  Mrs.  Macmurdo,  and  have  a  talk  with  Mrs. 
Grizel. — I  hope  the  laird  may  last  the  week." 

"You're  a  close  ane!"  thought  the  disappointed 
Mrs.  Macmurdo.  Aloud  she  said,  "Aweel,  sir,  Mr. 
Alexander  that  will  be  laird  is  coming  hame  frae  for 
eign  parts?" 

"Yes." 

"Sic  a  wanderer  as  he  has  been!  But  there!" 
said  Mrs.  Macmurdo,  "ony  that  saw  him  when  he 
was  a  laddie  gaeing  here  and  gaeing  there  by  his  lane- 
some,  glen  and  brae  and  muir,  might  ha'  said, 
'Ye're  a  wanderer — and  as  sune  as  ye  may  ye'll 
wander  farther!'" 

"You're  quite  right,  Mrs.  Macmurdo,"  said 
Strickland,  and  took  his  parcel  from  her. 

"A  wanderer  and  a  seeker!"  Mrs.  Macmurdo  was 
loth  to  let  him  go.  "And  his  great  friend  is  still 
Captain  Ian  Rullock?" 

"Yes,  still." 

Mrs.  Macmurdo  reluctantly  opened  the  shop  door. 
"Aweel,  sir,  if  ye  maun  gae. — There'll  be  snaw  the 
night,  I'm  thinking!  Do  ye  stop  at  the  inn?  There's 
twa- three  sogers  in  town." 

Strickland  had  not  meant  to  stop.  But,  coming  to 
the  Jardine  Arms  and  glancing  through  the  window, 
he  saw  by  the  light  of  the  fire  in  the  common  room 

63 


FOES 

four  men  in  red  coats  sitting  at  table,  drinking.  He 
felt  jaded  and  depressed,  needing  distraction  from 
the  gray  chill  day  and  the  laird's  dying.  Curiosity 
faintly  stretched  herself.  He  turned  into  the  inn, 
took  a  seat  by  a  corner  table,  and  called  for  a  bottle 
of  wine.  In  addition  to  the  soldiers  the  room  had  a 
handful  of  others — farmers,  a  lawyer's  clerk  from 
Stirling,  a  petty  officer  of  the  excise,  and  two  or  three 
Village  nondescripts.  From  this  group  there  now  dis 
engaged  himself  Robin  Greenlaw,  who  came  across  to 
Strickland's  table. 

"Sit  down  and  have  a  glass  with  me,"  said  the 
latter.  "Who  are  they?" 

"A  recruiting  party,"  answered  Greenlaw,  accept 
ing  the  invitation.  "I  like  to  hear  their  talk!  I'll 
listen,  drinking  your  wine  and  thanking  you,  sir! 
and  riding  home  I'll  make  a  song  about  them." 

He  sat  with  his  arm  over  the  chair-back,  his  right 
hand  now  lifting  and  now  lowering  the  wine-glass. 
He  had  a  look  of  strength  and  inner  pleasure  that 
rested  and  refreshed. 

"What  are  they  saying  now?"  asked  Strickland. 

The  soldiers  made  the  center  of  attention.  More 
or  less  all  in  the  room  harkened  to  their  talk,  discon 
nected,  obscure,  idle,  and  boisterous  as  much  of  it 
was.  The  revenue  officer,  by  virtue  of  being  also  the 
king's  paid  man,  had  claimed  comrade's  right  and 
was  drinking  with  them  and  putting  questions.  He 
was  so  obliging  as  to  ask  these  in  a  round  tone  of 
voice  and  to  repeat  on  the  same  note  the  information 
gathered. 

"Recruits  for  the  King's  army,  fighting  King  Louis 
on  the  river  Main>— Where's  that? — It's  in  Germany. 

64 


FOES 

Our  King  and  the  Hanoverians  and  the  King  of 
Prussia  and  the  Queen  of  Austria  are  fighting  the 
King  of  France. — Aye,  of  course  ye  know  that,  neigh 
bors,  being  intelligent  Scots  folk,  but  recapitulation 
is  na  out  of  order!" 

"Ask  them  what's  thought  of  the  Hanoverians." 
It  was  the  lawyer's  clerk's  question.  Thereupon  rose 
some  noisy  difference  of  opinion  among  the  drinking 
redcoats.  The  excise  man  finally  reported.  "They're 
na  English,  nor  Scots,  nor  even  Irish.  But  they're 
liked  weel  enough!  They're  good  fighters.  Oh,  aye, 
when  ye  march  and  fight  alangside  them,  they're 
good  enough!  They're  his  Majesty's  cousins.  God 
save  King  George!" 

The  recruiting  party  banged  with  tankards  upon 
the  table.  One  of  the  number  put  a  question  of  his 
own.  He  had  a  look  half  pedant,  half  bully,  and  he 
spoke  with  a  one-quarter-drunken,  owllike  solemnity. 

"I  may  take  it  from  the  look  of  things  that  there 
are  none  hereabouts  but  good  Whigs  and  upholders 
of  government  ?  No  Tories  —  no  damned  black 
Jacobites?" 

The  excise  man  hemmed.  "Why,  ye  see  we're  no 
sae  muckle  far  from  Hielands  and  Hielandmen,  and 
it's  known  what  they  are,  chief,  chieftain,  and  clan — • 
saving  always  the  duke  and  every  Campbell!  And 
I  wadna  say  that  there  are  not,  here  and  there,  this 
side  the  Hielands,  an  auld  family  with  leanings  the 
auld  way,  and  even  a  few  gentlemen  who  were  out 
in  the  'fifteen.  But  the  maist  of  us,  gentle  and  simple, 
are  up  and  down  Whig  and  Kirk  and  reigning  House. 
— Na,  na !  when  we  drink  to  the  King  we  dinna  pass 
the  glass  over  the  water!" 

65 


FOES 

A  dark,  thin  soldier  put  in  his  word,  well  gar 
nished  with  oaths.  ''Now  that  there's  war  up  and 
down  and  so  many  of  us  are  going  out  of  the  country, 
there's  a  saying  that  the  Pretender  may  e'en  sail 
across  from  France  and  beat  a  drum  and  give  a 
shout!  Then  there'll  be  a  sorting — " 

' '  Them  that  would  rise  wouldn't  be  enough  to  make 
a  graveyard  ghost  to  frighten  with!" 

"You're  mistaken  there.  They'll  frighten  ye  all 
right  when  they  answer  the  drum!  I'm  thinking 
there's  some  in  the  army  would  answer  it!" 

"Then  they'll  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered!" 
averred  the  corporal.  "Who  are  ye  thinking  would 
do  that?" 

"I'm  not  precisely  knowing.  But  there  are  some 
with  King  George  were  brought  up  on  the  hope  of 
King  James!" 

More  liquor  appeared  upon  the  table,  was  poured 
and  drunk.  The  talk  grew  professional.  The  King's 
shilling,  and  the  advantage  of  taking  it,  came  solely 
upon  the  board,  and  who  might  or  might  not  'list 
from  this  dale  and  the  bordering  hills.  Strickland 
and  Robin  Greenlaw  left  their  corner. 

"I  must  get  back  to  the  house." 

"And  I  to  Littlefarm." 

They  went  out  together.  There  were  few  in  the 
street.  The  snow  was  beginning  to  fall.  Greenlaw 
untied  his  horse. 

"I  hope  that  we're  not  facing  another  'fifteen! 
'Scotland's  ain  Stewarts,  and  Break  the  Union!'  It 
sounds  well,  but  it's  not  in  the  line  of  progres 
sion.  What  does  Captain  Ian  Rullock  think 
about  it?" 

66 


FOES 

"I  don't  know.  He  hasn't  been  here,  you  know,  for 
a  long  while." 

"That's  true.  He  and  Mr.  Alexander  are  still  like 
brothers?" 

"Like  brothers." 

Greenlaw  mounted  his  horse.  "Well,  he's  a  bonny 
man,  but  he's  got  a  piece  of  the  demon  in  him!  So 
have  I,  I  ken  very  well,  and  so,  doubtless,  has  he  who 
will  be  Glenfernie,  and  all  the  rest  of  us — " 

"I  sit  down  to  supper  with  mine  very  often," 
said  Strickland. 

"Oh  yes,  he's  common — the  demon!  But  some 
how  I  could  find  him  in  Ian  Rullock,  though  all 
covered  up  with  gold.  But  doubtless,"  said  Green- 
law,  debonairly,  "it  would  be  the  much  of  the  fellow 
in  me  that  would  recognize  much  in  another!"  He 
put  his  gray  into  motion.  "Good  day,  sir!"  He  was 
gone,  disappearing  down  the  long  street,  into  the 
snow  that  was  now  falling  like  a  veil. 

Strickland  turned  homeward.  The  snow  fell  fast 
and  thick  in  large  white  flakes.  Glenfernie  House 
rose  before  him,  crowning  the  craggy  hill,  the  modern 
building  and  the  remnant  of  the  old  castle,  not  a 
great  place,  but  an  ancient,  settled,  and  rooted,  part 
of  a  land  poor  but  not  without  grandeur,  not  without 
a  rhythm  attained  between  grandeur  and  homeliness. 
The  road  swept  around  and  up  between  leafless 
trees  and  green  cone-bearing  ones.  The  snow  was 
whitening  the  branches,  the  snow  wrapped  house  and 
landscape  in  its  veil.  It  broke,  in  part  it  obliterated, 
line  and  modeling;  the  whole  seemed  on  the  point  of 
dissolving  into  a  vast  and  silent  unity.  "Like  a  dy 
ing  man,"  thought  Strickland.  He  came  upon  the 

67 


FOES 

harrow  level  space  about  the  house,  passed  the  great 
cedar  planted  by  a  pilgrim  laird  the  year  of  Flodden 
Field,  and  entered  by  a  door  in  the  southern  face. 

Davie  met  him.  "Eh,  sir,  Mr.  Alexander's 
come!" 

"Come!" 

"Aye,  just!  An  hour  past,  riding  Black  Alan, 
with  Tarn  Dickson  behind  on  Whitefoot,  and  weary 
enough  thae  horses  looked!  Mr.  Alexander  wad  ha' 
gane  without  bite  or  sup  to  the  laird's  room,  but  he's 
lying  asleep.  So  now  he's  gane  to  his  ain  auld  room 
for  a  bit  of  rest.  Haith,  sir,"  said  Davie,  "but  he's 
like  the  auld  laird  when  he  was  twenty-eight!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OTRICKLAND  went  to  the  hall,  where  he  found 
O  Alice. 

"Come  to  the  fire!  I've  been  watching  the  snow, 
but  it  is  so  white  and  thick  and  still  it  fair  frightens 
me!  Davie  told  you  that  Alexander  has  come?" 

' '  Yes.     From  Edinburgh  to-day. ' ' 

"Yes.  He  left  London  as  soon  as  he  had  our 
letters." 

She  stood  opposite  him,  a  bright  and  bonny  lass, 
with  a  look  of  her  mother,  but  with  more  beauty. 
The  light  from  the  burning  logs  deepened  the  gold 
in  her  hair,  as  the  warmth  made  more  vivid  the  rose 
of  her  cheek.  She  owned  a  warm  and  laughing 
heart,  a  natural  goodness.  Strickland,  who  had 
watched  and  taught  her  since  she  was  a  slip  of  a 
child,  had  for  her  a  great  fondness. 

Jamie  entered  the  hall.  "Father's  awake  now, 
but  Aunt  Grizel  and  Tibbie  Ross  will  not  tell  him 
Alexander's  come  until  they've  given  him  some 
thing  to  eat."  He  came  to  the  fire  and  stood,  his 
blue  eyes  glinting  light.  "It's  fine  to  see  Alexander! 
The  whole  place  feels  different!" 

"You've  got  a  fine  love  for  Alexander,"  said 
Strickland.  So  long  had  he  lived  with  the  Jardines 
of  Glenfernie  that  they  had  grown  like  own  folk 

69 


FOES 

to  him,  and  he  to  them.  He  looked  very  kindly  at 
the  young  man,  handsome,  big,  flushed  with  feel 
ing.  He  did  not  say,  "Now  you'll  be  going,  Jamie, 
and  he'll  be  staying,"  but  the  thought  was  in  mind, 
and  presently  Alice  gave  it  voice. 

"He  says  that  he  has  seen  his  earth,  and  that 
now  he  means  to  be  a  long  time  at  home." 

Davie  appeared.  ' '  Mr.  Alexander  has  gone  to  the 
laird's  room.  Mrs.  Grizel  wad  have  ye  all  come,  too, 
sae  be  ye  move  saftly  and  sit  dumb." 

The  three  went.  The  laird's  room  was  large  and 
somewhat  grimly  bare.  When  his  wife  died  he 
would  have  taken  out  every  luxury.  But  a  great 
fire  burned  on  the  hearth  and  gave  a  touch  of  re 
demption.  A  couch,  too,  had  been  brought  in  for 
the  watcher  at  night,  and  a  great  flowered  chair. 
In  this  now  sat  Mrs.  Grizel  Kerr,  a  pleasant,  elderly, 
comely  body,  noted  for  her  housewifery  and  her  gar 
den  of  herbs.  Behind  her,  out  of  a  shadowy  cor 
ner,  gleamed  the  white  mutch  of  Tibbie  Ross,  the 
best  nurse  in  that  countryside.  Jamie  and  Alice 
took  two  chairs  that  had  been  set  for  them  near  the 
bed.  Strickland  moved  to  the  recess  of  a  window. 
Outside  the  snow  fell  in  very  large  flakes,  large  and 
many,  straight  and  steady,  there  being  no  wind. 

In  a  chair  drawn  close  to  the  great  bed,  on  a  line 
with  the  sick  man's  hand  lying  on  the  coverlet,  sat 
the  heir  of  Glenfernie.  He  sat  leaning  forward,  with 
one  hand  near  the  hand  of  his  father.  The  laird's 
eyes  were  closed.  He  had  been  given  a  stimulant 
and  he  now  lay  gathering  his  powers  that  were  not 
far  from  this  life's  frontier.  The  curtains  of  the  bed 
had  been  drawn  quite  back;  propped  by  pillows  into 

70 


FOES 

a  half -sit  ting  posture,  he  was  plain  to  all  in  the  room, 
in  the  ruddy  light  of  the  fire.  A  clock  upon  the  wall 
ticked,  ticked.  Those  in  the  room  sat  very  still. 

The  laird  drew  a  determined  breath  and  opened 
his  eyes.  "Alexander!" 

"Father!11 

"You  look  like  myself  sitting  there,  and  yet  not 
myself.  I  am  going  to  die." 

"If  that's  your  will,  father." 

"Aye,  it's  my  will,  for  I've  made  it  mine.  I 
can't  talk  much.  We'll  talk  at  times  and  sit  still 
between.  Are  you  going  to  stay  with  me  to-night?" 

"Indeed  I  am,  father.     Right  here  beside  you." 

"Well,  I've  missed  you.  But  you  had  to  have 
your  wanderings  and  your  life  of  men.  I  understood 
that." 

"You've  been  most  good  to  me.  It  is  in  my  heart 
and  in  the  tears  of  my  eyes." 

"I  did  not  grudge  the  siller.  And  I've  had  a 
pride  in  you,  Alexander.  Now  you'll  be  the  laird. 
Now  let's  sit  quiet  a  bit." 

The  snow  fell,  the  fire  burned,  the  clock  ticked. 
He  spoke  again.  "It's  before  an  eye  inside  that 
you'll  be  a  wanderer  and  a  goer  about  yet — within 
and  without,  my  laddie,  within  and  without!  Do 
not  forget,  though,  to  hold  the  old  place  together 
that  so  many  Jardines  have  been  born  in,  and  to 
care  for  the  tenant  bodies  and  the  old  folk — and 
there's  your  brother  and  sister." 

"I  will  forget  nothing  that  you  say,  father." 

"I  have  kept  that  to  say  on  top  of  my  mind.  .  .  . 
The  old  place  and  the  tenant  bodies  and  old  folk, 
and  your  brother  and  sister.  I  have  your  word, 


FOES 

and  so,"  said  the  laird,  "that's  done  and  may  drift 
by. — Grizel,  I  wad  sleep  a  bit.  Let  him  go  and 
come  again.*' 

His  eyes  closed.     Alexander  rose  from  the  chair 
beside   him.     Coming   to   Alice,    he   put   his    arm 
around  her,  and  with  Jamie  at  his  other  hand  the 
three  went  from  the  room.     Strickland  tarried  a 
moment  to  consult  with  Mrs.  Grizel. 
"The  doctor  comes  to-morrow?" 
"Aye.     Tibbie  thinks  him  a  bit  stronger. " 
"I  will  watch  to-night  with  Alexander." 
"Hoot,  man!    ye  maun  be  weary  enough  your 
self!"  said  Mrs.  Grizel. 

"No,  I  am  not.  I  will  sleep  awhile  after  supper, 
and  come  in  about  ten.  So  you  and  Tibbie  may  get 
one  good  night." 

Some  hours  later,  in  the  room  that  had  been  his 
since  his  first  coming  to  Glenfernie,  he  gazed  out  of 
window  before  turning  to  go  down-stairs.  The 
snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  and  out  of  a  great  stream 
ing  floe  of  clouds  looked  a  half -moon.  Under  it 
lay  wan  hill  and  plain.  The  clouds  were  all  of  a, 
size  and  vast  in  number,  a  herd  of  the  upper  air. 
The  wind  drove  them,  not  like  a  shepherd,  but  like 
a  wolf  at  their  heels.  The  moon  seemed  the  shep 
herd,  laboring  for  control.  Then  the  clouds  them 
selves  seemed  the  wolves,  and  the  moon  a  traveler 
against  whom  they  leaped,  who  was  thrown  among 
them,  and  rose  again.  .  .  .  Then  the  moon  was  a 
soul,  struggling  with  the  wrack  and  wave  of  things. 
Strickland  went  down  the  old,  winding  Glenfernie 
stair,  and  came  at  last  to  the  laird's  room.  Tibbie 
Ross  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  he  saw  it  all  in 

72 


FOES 

low  firelight  and  made  ready  for  the  night.  The 
laird  lay  propped  as  before  in  the  great  bed,  but 
seemed  asleep.  Alexander  sat  before  the  fire,  elbows 
upon  knees  and  chin  in  hand,  brooding  over  the  red 
coals.  Tibbie  murmured  a  direction  or  two  and 
showed  wine  and  bread  set  in  the  deep  window. 
Then  with  a  courtesy  and  a  breathed,  "Gie  ye  gude 
night,  sirs!"  she  was  forth  to  her  own  rest.  The 
door  closed  softly  behind  her.  Strickland  stepped 
as  softly  to  the  chair  beyond  Alexander.  The  couch 
was  spread  for  the  watchers'  alternate  use,  if  so 
they  chose;  on  a  table  burned  shaded  candles. 
Strickland  had  a  book  in  his  pocket.  Sitting  down, 
he  produced  this,  for  he  would  not  seem  to  watch 
the  man  by  the  fire. 

Alexander  Jardine,  large  and  strong  of  frame,  with 
a  countenance  massive  and  thoughtful  for  so  young 
a  man,  bronzed,  with  well-turned  features,  gazed 
steadily  into  the  red  hollows  where  the  light  played, 
withdrew  and  played  again.  Strickland  tried  to 
read,  but  the  sense  of  the  other's  presence  affected 
him,  came  between  his  mind  and  the  page.  In 
voluntarily  he  began  to  occupy  himself  with  Alex 
ander  and  to  picture  his  life  away  from  Glenfernie, 
away,  too,  from  Edinburgh  and  Scotland.  It  was 
now  six  years  since,  definitely,  he  had  given  up  the 
law,  throwing  himself,  as  it  were,  on  the  laird's 
mercy  both  for  long  and  wide  travel,  and  for  life 
among  books  other  than  those  indicated  for  advo 
cates.  The  laird  had  let  him  go  his  gait — the  laird 
with  Mrs.  Jardine  a  little  before  him.  The  Jardine 
fortune  was  not  a  great  one,  but  there  was  enough 
for  an  heir  who  showed  no  inclination  to  live  and 
6  73 


FOES 

to  travel  en  prince,  who  in  certain  ways  was  nearer 
the  ascetic  than  the  spendthrift.  .  .  .  Before  Strick 
land's  mind,  strolling  dreamily,  came  pictures  of  far 
back,  of  years  ago,  of  long  since.  A  by-wind  had 
brought  to  the  tutor  then  certain  curious  bits  of 
knowledge.  Alexander,  a  student  in  Edinburgh,  had 
lived  for  some  time  upon  half  of  his  allowance  in 
order  to  accommodate  Ian  Rullock  with  the  other 
half,  the  latter  being  in  a  crisis  of  quarrel  with  his 
uncle,  who,  when  he  quarreled,  used  always,  where 
he  could,  the  money  screw.  Strickland  had  listened 
to  his  Edinburgh  informant,  but  had  never  di 
vulged  the  news  given.  No  more  had  he  told  an 
other  bit,  floated  to  him  again  by  that  ancient  Edin 
burgh  friend  and  gossip,  who  had  young  cousins  at 
college  and  listened  to  their  talk.  It  pertained  to 
a  time  a  little  before  that  of  the  shared  income. 
This  time  it  had  been  shared  blood.  Strickland, 
sitting  with  his  book  in  the  quiet  room,  saw  in 
imagination  the  students*  chambers  in  Edinburgh, 
and  the  little  throng  of  very  young  men,  flushed  with 
wine  and  with  youth,  making  friendships,  and  talk 
ing  of  friendships  made,  and  dubbing  Alexander 
Damon  and  Ian  Pythias.  Then  more  wine  and  a 
bravura  passage.  Damon  and  Pythias  opening  each 
a  vein  with  some  convenient  dagger,  smearing  into 
the  wound  some  drops  of  the  other's  blood,  and 
going  home  each  with  a  tourniquet  above  the  right 
wrist.  .  .  .  Well,  that  was  years  ago — and  youth 
loved  such  passages! 

Alexander,  by  the  fire,  stooped  to  put  back  a 
coal  that  had  fallen  upon  the  oak  boards,  then  sank 
again  into  his  reverie.  Strickland  read  a  paragraph 

74 


FOES 

without  any  especial  comprehension,  after  which 
he  found  himself  again  by  the  stream  of  Alexander's 
life.  That  friendship  with  Ian  Rullock  utterly  held, 
he  believed.  Well,  Ian  Rullock,  too,  seemed  some 
how  a  great  personage.  Very  different  from  Alex 
ander,  and  yet  somehow  large  to  match.  .  .  .  Where 
had  Alexander  been  after  Edinburgh — where  had 
he  not  been?  Very  often  Ian  was  with  him,  but 
sometimes  and  for  months  he  would  seem  to  have 
been  alone.  Glenfernie  might  receive  letters  from 
Germany,  from  Italy  or  Egypt,  or  from  further  yet 
to  the  east.  He  had  been  alone  this  year,  for  Ian 
was  now  the  King's  man  and  with  his  regiment, 
Strickland  supposed,  wherever  that  might  be. 
Alexander  had  written  from  Buda-Pesth,  from  Er 
furt,  from  Amsterdam,  from  London.  Now  he  sat 
here  at  Glenfernie,  looking  into  the  fire.  Strick 
land,  who  liked  books  of  travel,  wondered  what  he 
saw  of  old  cities,  grave  or  gay,  of  ruined  temples, 
sphinxes,  monuments,  grass-grown  battle-fields,  and 
ships  at  sea,  storied  lands,  peoples,  individual  men 
and  women.  He  had  wayfared  long;  he  must  have 
had  many  an  adventure.  He  had  been  from  child 
hood  a  learner.  His  touch  upon  a  book  spoke  of 
adeptship  in  that  world.  .  .  .  Well,  here  he  was,  and 
what  would  he  do  now,  when  he  was  laird  ?  Strick 
land  lost  himself  in  speculation.  Little  or  naught 
had  ever  been  in  Alexander's  letters  about  women. 
The  white  ash  fell,  the  clock  ticked,  the  wind 
went  around  the  house  with  a  faint,  banshee  crying. 
The  figure  by  the  fire  rested  there,  silent,  still,  and 
brooding.  Strickland  observed  with  some  wonder 
its  power  of  long,  concentrated  thinking.  It  sat 

75 


FOES 

there,  not  visibly  tense,  seemingly  relaxed,  yet  as 
evidently  looking  into  some  place  of  inner  motion, 
wider  and  swifter  than  that  of  the  night  world  about 
it.  Strickland  tried  to  read.  The  clock  hand  moved 
toward  midnight. 

The  laird  spoke  from  the  great  bed.  "Alex 
ander — " 

"I  am  here,  father.  Alexander  rose  and  went 
to  the  sick  man's  side.  "You  slept  finely!  And 
here  we  have  food  for  you,  and  drops  to  give  you 
strength — " 

The  laird  s  vallowed  the  drops  and  a  spoonful  or 
two  of  broth.  "There.  Now  I  want  to  talk.  Aye, 
I  am  strong  enough.  I  feel  stronger.  I  am  strong. 
It  hurts  me  more  to  check  me.  Is  that  the  wind 
blowing?" 

"Yes.     It  is  a  wild  night." 

"It  is  singing.  I  could  almost  pick  out  the  words. 
Alexander,  there's  a  quarrel  I  have  with  Touris  of 
Black  Hill.  I  have  no  wish  to  make  it  up.  He  did 
me  a  wrong  and  is  a  sinner  in  many  ways.  But  his 
sister  is  different.  If  you  see  her  tell  her  that  I 
aye  liked  her." 

"Would  it  make  you  happier  to  be  reconciled  to 
Mr.  Touris?" 

"No,  it  would  not!  You  were  never  a  canting 
one,  Alexander!  Let  that  be.  Anger  is  anger,  and 
it's  weakness  to  gainsay  it !  That  is,"  said  the  laird, 
"when  it's  just — and  this  is  just.  Alexander,  my 
bonny  man — " 

"I'm  here,  father." 

"I've  been  lying  here,  gaemg  up  and  down  in  my 
thoughts,  a  bairn  again  with  my  grandmither,  gaeing 

76 


FOES 

up  and  down  the  braes  and  by  the  glen.  I  want 
to  say  somewhat  to  you.  When  you  see  an  adder 
set  your  heel  upon  it!  When  a  wolf  goes  by  take 
your  firelock  and  after  him!  When  a  denier  and  a 
cheat  is  near  you  tell  the  world  as  much  and  help 
to  set  the  snare!  Where  there  are  betrayers  and 
persecutors  hunt  the  wild  plant  shall  make  a  cup 
like  their  ain!"  He  fell  to  coughing,  coughing  more 
and  more  violently. 

Strickland  rose  and  came  to  the  bedside,  and  the 
two  watchers  gave  him  water  and  wine  to  drink, 
and  would  have  had  him,  when  the  fit  was  over, 
cease  from  all  speech.  He  shook  them  off. 

"Alexander,  ye're  like  me.  Ye 're  mair  like  me 
than  any  think!  Where  ye  find  your  Grierson  of 
Lagg,  clench  with  him — clench — Alexander!" 

He  coughed,  lifting  himself  in  their  arms.  A 
blood-vessel  broke.  Tibbie  Ross,  answering  the  call 
ing,  hurried  in.  "Gude  with  us!  it's  the  end!" 
Mrs.  Grizel  came,  wrapped  in  a  great  flowered  bed 
gown.  In  a  few  minutes  all  was  over.  Strickland 
and  Alexander  laid  him  straight  that  had  been  the 
laird. 


CHAPTER  IX 

'"THE  month  was  May.     The  laird  of  Glenfernie, 

A   who  had  walked  to  the  Kelpie's  Pool,  now  came 

down  the  glen.     Mother  Binning  was  yet  in  her  cot, 

though  an  older  woman  now  and  somewhat  broken. 

"Oh  aye,  my  bonny  man!  All  things  die  and  all 
things  live.  To  and  fro  gaes  the  shuttle!" 

Glenfernie  sat  on  the  doorstone.  She  took  all 
the  news  he  could  bring,  and  had  her  own  questions 
to  put. 

"How's  the  house  and  all  in  it?" 

"Well." 

"Ye've  got  a  bonny  sister!  Whom  will  she 
marry?  There's  Abercrombie  and  Fleming  and 
Ferguson. " 

"I  do  not  know.     The  one  she  likes  the  best." 

"And  when  will  ye  be  marrying  yourself?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  marry,  Mother.  I  would 
marry  Wisdom,  if  I  could!" 

"Hoot!  she  stays  single!  Do  ye  love  the  hunt 
of  Wisdom  so?" 

"Aye,  I  do.  But  it's  a  long,  long  chase — and  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  at  times  I  think  she's  just  a  wraith ! 
And  at  times  I  am  lazy  and  would  just  sit  in  the  sun 
and  be  a  fool." 

"Like  to-day?" 

78 


FOES 

"Like  to-day.  And  so,"  said  Alexander,  rising, 
"as  I  feel  that  way,  I'll  e'en  be  going  on!" 

"I'm  thinking  that  maist  of  the  wise  have  inner 
tokens  by  which  they  ken  the  fule.  I  was  ne'er 
afraid  of  folly,"  said  Mother  Binning.  "It's  good 
growing  stuff!" 

Glenfernie  laughed  and  left  her  and  the  drone  of 
her  wheel.  A  clucking  hen  and  her  brood,  the  cot 
and  its  ash-tree,  sank  from  sight.  A  little  1  nger 
and  he  reached  the  middle  glen  where  the  banks 
approached  and  the  full  stream  rushed  with  a  mani 
fold  sound.  Here  was  the  curtain  of  brier  masking 
the  cave  that  he  had  shared  with  Ian.  He  drew  it 
aside  and  entered.  So  much  smaller  was  the  place 
than  it  had  seemed  in  boyhood!  Twice  since  they 
came  to  be  men  had  he  been  here  with  Ian,  and  they 
had  smiled  over  their  cavern,  but  felt  for  it  a  ten 
derness.  In  a  corner  lay  the  fagots  that,  the  last 
time,  they  had  gathered  with  laughter  and  left  here 
against  outlaws'  needs.  Ian!  He  pictured  Ian 
with  his  soldiers. 

Outside  the  cavern,  the  air  came  about  him  like 
a  cloud  of  fragrance.  As  he  went  down  the  glen, 
into  its  softer  sweeps,  this  increased,  as  did  the 
song  of  birds.  The  primrose  was  strewn  about  in 
disks  of  pale  gold,  the  white  thorn  lifted  great 
bouquets,  the  bluebell  touched  the  heart.  A  lark 
sang  in  the  sky,  linnet  and  cuckoo  at  hand,  in  the 
wood  at  the  top  of  the  glen  cooed  the  doves.  The 
water  rippled  by  the  leaning  birches,  the  wild  bees 
went  from  flower  to  flower.  The  sky  was  all  sap 
phire,  the  air  a  perfumed  ocean.  So  beautiful  rang 
the  spring  that  it  was  like  a  bell  in  the  heart,  in  the 

79 


FOES 

blood.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie,  coming  to  a  great 
natural  chair  of  sun-warmed  rock,  sat  down  to  listen. 
All  was  of  a  sweetness,  poignant,  intense.  But  in 
the  very  act  of  recognizing  this,  there  came  upon 
him  an  old  mood  of  melancholy,  an  inner  mist  and 
chill,  a  gray  languor  and  wanting.  The  very 
bourgeoning  and  blossoming  about  him  seemed  to 
draw  light  from  him,  not  give  light.  "I  brought  the 
Kelpie's  Pool  back  with  me,"  he  thought.  He  shut 
his  eyes,  leaning  his  head  against  the  stone,  at  last 
with  a  sideward  movement  burying  it  in  his  folded 
arms.  "More  life — more!  What  was  a  great  cur 
rent  goes  sluggish  and  landbound.  Where  again  is 
the  open  sea — the  more — the  boundless?  Where 
again — where  again?" 

He  sat  for  an  hour  by  the  wild,  singing  stream. 
It  drenched  him,  the  loved  place  and  the  sweet 
season,  with  its  thousand  store  of  beauties.  Its 
infinite  number  of  touches  brought  at  last  response. 
The  vague  crying  and  longing  of  nature  hushed  be 
fore  a  present  lullaby.  At  last  he  rose  and  went  on 
with  the  calling  stream. 

The  narrow  path,  set  about  with  living  green,  with 
the  spangly  flowers,  and  between  the  branches  frag 
ments  of  the  Mue  lift  as  clear  as  glass,  led  down  the 
glen,  widening  now  to  hill  and  dale.  Softening  and 
widening,  the  world  laughed  in  May.  The  stream 
grew  broad  and  tranquil,  with  grassy  shores  over 
hung  by  green  boughs.  Here  and  there  the  bank  ex 
tended  into  the  flood  a  little  grassy  cape  edged  with 
violets.  Alexander,  following  the  spiral  of  the  path, 
came  upon  the  view  of  such  a  spot  as  this.  It  lay 
just  before  him,  a  little  below  his  road.  The  stream 

80 


FOES 

washed  its  fairy  beach.  From  the  new  grass  rose  a 
blooming  thorn-tree ;  beneath  this  knelt  a  girl  and, 
resting  upon  her  hands,  looked  at  her  face  in  the  water. 
The  laird  of  Glenfernie  stood  still.  A  drooping 
birch  hid  him;  his  step  had  been  upon  moss  and  was 
not  heard.  The  face  and  form  upon  the  bank,  the 
face  in  the  water,  showed  no  consciousness  of  any 
human  neighbor.  The  face  was  that  of  a  woman  of 
perhaps  twenty-four.  The  hair  was  brown,  the 
eyes  brown.  The  head  was  beautifully  placed  on  a 
round,  smooth  throat.  With  a  wide  forehead,  with 
great  width  between  the  eyes,  the  face  tapered  to  a 
small  round  chin.  The  mouth  and  under  the  eyes 
smiled  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  The  beauty 
that  was  there  was  subtle,  not  discoverable  by  every 
one. — The  girl  settled  back  upon  the  grass  beneath 
the  thorn-tree.  She  was  very  near  Glenfernie;  he 
could  see  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  beneath  her 
blue  print  gown.  It  was  Elspeth  Barrow — he  knew 
her  now,  though  he  had  not  seen  her  for  a  long 
time.  She  sat  still,  her  brown  eyes  raised  to  build 
ing  birds  in  the  thorn-tree.  Then  she  began  herself 
to  sing,  clear  and  sweet. 

"A  lad  and  a  lass  met  ower  the  brae; 

They  blushed  rose-red,  but  they  said  nae  word — 
The  woodbine  fair  and  the  milk-white  slae: — - 
And  frae  one  to  the  other  gaed  a  silver  bird, 
A  silver  bird. 

"A  man  set  his  Wish  all  odds  before, 

With  sword,  with  pen,  and  with  gold  he  stirred 
Till  the  Wish  and  he  met  on  a  conquered  shore, 
And  frae  one  to  the  other  gaed  an  ebon  bird, 
An  ebon  bird. 

81 


FOES 

"God  looked  on  a  man  and  said:    "Tis  time! 

The  broken  mends,  clear  flows  the  blurred. 
You  and  I  are  two  worlds  that  rhyme!' 
And  frae  one  to  the  other  gaed  a  golden  bird, 
A  golden  bird." 

She  sang  it  through,  then  sat  entirely  still  against 
the  stem  of  the  thorn,  while  about  her  lips  played 
that  faint,  unapproachable,  glamouring  smile.  Her 
hands  touched  the  grass  to  either  side  her  body; 
her  slender,  blue-clad  figure,  the  all  of  her,  smote 
him  like  some  god's  line  of  poetry. 

There  was  in  the  laird  of  Glenfernie's  nature  an 
empty  palace.  It  had  been  built  through  ages  and 
every  wind  of  pleasure  and  pain  had  blown  about  it. 
Then  it  had  slowly  come  about  that  the  winds  of 
pain  had  increased  upon  the  winds  of  pleasure.  The 
mind  closed  the  door  of  the  palace  and  the  nature 
inclined  to  turn  from  it.  It  was  there,  but  a  sea 
mist  hid  it,  and  a  tall  thorn-hedge,  and  a  web 
stretched  across  its  idle  gates.  It  had  hardly  come, 
in  this  life,  into  Glenfernie's  waking  mind  that  it 
was  there  at  all. 

Now  with  a  suddenness  every  door  clanged  open. 
The  mist  parted,  the  thorn-wood  sank,  the  web  was 
torn.  The  palace  stood,  shining  like  home,  and  it 
was  he  who  was  afar,  in  the  mist  and  the  wood,  and 
the  web  of  idleness  and  oblivion  in  shreds  about  him. 
Set  in  the  throne-room,  upon  the  throne,  he  saw  the 
queen. 

His  mood,  that  May  day,  had  given  the  moment, 
and  wide  circumstance  had  met  it.  Now  the  hand 
was  in  the  glove,  the  statue  in  the  niche,  the  bow 
upon  the  string,  the  spark  in  the  tinder,  the  sea 

82 


FOES 

through  the  dike.  Now  what  had  reached  being 
must  take  its  course. 

He  felt  that  so  fatally  that  he  did  not  think  of 
resistance.  .  .  .  Elspeth,  upon  the  grassy  cape,  be 
neath  the  blooming  thorn,  heard  steps  down  the 
glen  path,  and  turned  her  eyes  to  see  the  young 
laird  moving  between  the  birch  stems.  Now  he  was 
level  with  the  holding;  now  he  spoke  to  her,  lifting 
his  hat.  She  answered,  with  the  smile  beneath  her 
eyes: 

"Aye,  Glenfernie,  it's  a  braw  day!" 

"May  I  come  into  the  fairy  country  and  sit 
awhile  and  visit?" 

"Aye."  She  welcomed  him  to  a  hillock  of  green 
rising  from  the  water's  edge.  "It  is  fairyland,  and 
these  are  the  broad  seas  around,  and  I  know  if  I 
came  here  by  night  I  should  find  the  Good  People 
before  me!"  She  looked  at  him  with  friendliness, 
half  shy,  half  frank.  "It  is  the  best  of  weather  for 
wandering." 

"Are  you  fond  of  that,  too?  Do  you  go  up  and 
down  alone?" 

"By  my  lee-lane  when  Gilian's  not  here.  She's 
in  Aberdeen  now,  where  live  our  mother's  folk." 

"I  have  not  seen  you  for  years." 

"I  mind  the  last  time.  Your  mother  lay  ill. 
One  evening  at  sunset  Mr.  Ian  Rullock  and  you  came 
to  White  Farm." 

"It  must  have  been  after  sunset.  It  must  have 
been  dark." 

"Back  of  that  you  and  he  came  from  Edinburgh 
one  time.  We  were  down  by  the  wishing-green, 
Robin  Greenlaw  and  Gilian  and  I  and  three  or  four 


FOES 

other  lads  and  lassies.  Do  you  remember?  Mr. 
Rullock  would  have  us  dance,  and  we  all  took  hands 
— you,  too — and  went  around  the  ash-tree  as  though 
it  were  a  May-pole.  We  changed  hands,  one  with 
another,  and  danced  upon  the  green.  Then  you  and 
he  got  upon  your  horses  and  rode  away.  He  was 
riding  the  white  mare  Fatima.  But  oh,"  said 
Elspeth,  "then  came  grandfather,  who  had  seen  us 
from  the  reaped  field,  and  he  blamed  us  sair  and 
put  no  to  our  playing !  He  gave  word  to  the  minister, 
and  Sunday  the  sermon  dealt  with  the  ill  women  of 
Scripture.  Back  of  that — " 

"Back  of  that—" 

"There  was  the  day  the  two  of  you  would  go  to 
the  Kelpie's  Pool."  Elspeth's  eyes  enlarged  and 
darkened.  "The  next  morn  we  heard — Jock  Bin 
ning  told  us — that  Mr.  Ian  had  nearly  drowned." 

"Almost  ten  years  ago.  Once — twice — thrice  in 
ten  years.  How  idly  were  they  spent,  those  years!" 

"Oh,"  cried  Elspeth,  "they  say  that  you  have 
been  to  world's  end  and  have  gotten  great  learning!" 

"One  comes  home  from  all  that  to  find  world's 
end  and  great  learning." 

Elspeth  leaned  from  him,  back  against  the  thorn- 
tree.  She  looked  somewhat  disquietedly,  somewhat 
questioningly,  at  this  new  laird.  Glenfernie,  in  his 
turn,  laid  upon  himself  both  hands  of  control.  He 
thought : 

"Do  not  peril  all — do  not  peril  all — with  haste 
and  frightening!" 

He  sat  upon  the  green  hillock  and  talked  of 
country  news.  She  met  him  with  this  and  that. .  . 
White  Farm  affairs,  Littlefarm. 

84 


FOES 


Robin, "  said  Alexander,  "manages  so  well  that 
hell  grow  wealthy!" 

"Oh  no!  He  manages  well,  but  he'll  never  grow 
wealthy  outside!  But  inside  he  has  great  riches." 

"Does  she  love  him,  then?"  It  poured  fear  into 
his  heart.  A  magician  with  a  sword — with  a  great, 
evil,  written-upon  creese  like  that  hanging  at  Black 
Hill — was  here  before  the  palace. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  asked  Alexander,  and  asked 
it  with  so  straight  a  simplicity  that  Elspeth  Barrow 
took  no  offense. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  those  strange  smiles  played 
about  her  lips.  "Robin  is  a  fairy  man,"  she  said. 
"He  has  ower  little  of  struggle,  save  with  his  rhymes," 
and  left  him  to  make  what  he  could  of  that. 

"She  is  heart-free,"  he  thought,  but  still  he  feared 
and  boded. 

Elspeth  rose  from  the  grass,  stepped  from  beneath 
the  blooming  tree.  "I  must  be  going.  It  wears 
toward  noon." 

Together  they  left  the  flower-set  cape.  The  laird 
of  Glenfernie  looked  back  upon  it. 

'  *  Heaven  sent  a  sample  down.  You  come  here  when 
you  wish?  You  walk  about  with  the  spring  and 
summer  days?" 

"Aye,  when  my  work's  done.  Gilian  and  I  love 
the  greenwood." 

He  gave  her  the  narrow  path,  but  kept  beside 
her  on  stone  and  dead  leaves  and  mossy  root. 
Though  he  was  so  large  of  frame,  he  moved  with  a 
practised,  habitual  ease,  as  far  as  might  be  from 
any  savor  of  clumsiness.  He  had  magnetism,  and 
to-day  he  drew  like  a  planet  in  glow.  Now  he  looked 

3s 


FOES 

at  the  woman  beside  him,  and  now  he  looked  straight 
ahead  with  kindled  eyes. 

Elspeth  walked  with  slightly  quickened  breath, 
with  knitted  brows.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie  was 
above  her  in  station,  though  go  to  the  ancestors 
and  blood  was  equal  enough!  It  carried  appeal  to 
a  young  woman's  vanity,  to  be  walking  so,  to  feel 
that  the  laird  liked  well  enough  to  be  where  he  was. 
She  liked  him,  too.  Glenfernie  House  was  talked 
of,  talked  of,  by  village  and  farm  and  cot,  talked  of, 
talked  of,  year  by  year — all  the  Jar  dines,  their  vir 
tues  and  their  vices,  what  they  said  and  what  they 
did.  She  had  heard,  ever  since  she  was  a  bairn, 
that  continual  comment,  like  a  little  prattling  burn 
running  winter  and  summer  through  the  dale.  So 
she  knew  much  that  was  true  of  Alexander  Jardine, 
but  likewise  entertained  a  sufficient  amount  of  mis 
apprehension  and  romancing.  Out  of  it  all  came, 
however,  for  the  dale,  and  for  the  women  at  White 
Farm  who  listened  to  the  burn's  voice,  a  sense  of 
trustworthiness.  Elspeth,  walking  by  Glenfernie, 
felt  kindness  for  him.  If,  also,  there  ran  a  tremor 
of  feeling  that  it  was  very  fair  to  be  Elspeth  Barrow 
and  walking  so,  she  was  young  and  it  was  natural. 
But  beyond  that  was  a  sense,  vague,  unexplained 
to  herself,  but  disturbing.  There  was  feeling  in 
him  that  was  not  in  her.  She  was  aware  of  it  as 
she  might  be  aware  of  a  gathering  storm,  though  the 
brain  received  as  yet  no  clear  message.  She  felt,  strug 
gling  with  that  diffused  kindness  and  young  vanity, 
something  like  discomfort  and  fear.  So  her  mood 
was  complex  enough,  unharmonized,  parted  between 
opposing  currents.  She  was  a  riddle  to  herself. 

26 


FOES 

But  Glenfernie  walked  in  a  great  simplicity  of 
faeryland  or  heaven.  She  did  not  love  Robin  Green- 
law;  she  was  not  so  young  a  lass,  with  a  rose  in 
her  cheek  for  every  one;  she  was  come  so  far  with 
out  mating  because  she  had  snow  in  her  heart! 
The  palace  gleamed,  the  palace  shone.  All  the 
music  of  earth — of  the  world — poured  through. 
The  sun  had  drunk  up  the  mist,  time  had  eaten  the 
thorn-wood,  the  spider  at  the  gate  had  vanished 
into  chaos  and  old  night. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  cows  and  sheep  and  work-horses,  the  dogs, 
the  barn-yard  fowls,  the  very  hives  of  bees  at 
White  Farm,  seemed  to  know  well  enough  that  it 
was  the  Sabbath.  The  flowers  knew  it  that  edged 
the  kitchen  garden,  the  cherry-tree  knew  it  by  the 
southern  wall.  The  sunshine  knew  it,  wearing  its 
calm  Sunday  best.  Sights  and  sounds  attuned  them 
selves. 

The  White  Farm  family  was  home  from  kirk. 
Jenny  Barrow  and  Elspeth  put  away  hood  and  wide 
hat  of  straw,  slipped  from  and  shook  out  and  folded 
on  the  shelf  Sunday  gowns  and  kerchiefs.  Then 
each  donned  a  clean  print  and  a  less  fine  kerchief 
and  came  forth  to  direct  and  aid  the  two  cotter 
lasses  who  served  at  White  Farm.  These  by  now 
had  off  their  kirk  things,  but  they  marked  Sunday 
still  by  keeping  shoes  and  stockings.  Menie  and 
Merran,  Elspeth  and  Jenny,  set  the  yesterday-pre 
pared  dinner  cold  upon  the  table,  drew  the  ale,  and 
placed  chairs  and  stools.  Two  men,  Thomas  and 
Willy,  father  and  son,  who  drove  the  plow,  sowed 
and  reaped,  for  White  Farm,  came  from  the  barn. 
They  were  yet  Sunday-clad,  with  very  clean,  shin 
ing  faces.  "Call  father,  Elspeth!"  directed  Jenny, 
and  set  on  the  table  a  honeycomb. 

88 


FOES 

Elspeth  went  without  the  door.  Before  the  house 
grew  a  great  fir-tree  that  had  a  bench  built  around 
it.  Here,  in  fine  weather,  in  rest  hours  and  on  Sun 
day,  might  be  looked  for  Jarvis  Barrow.  It  was 
his  habit  to  take  the  far  side  of  the  tree,  with  the 
trunk  between  him  and  the  house.  So  there  spread 
before  him  the  running  river,  the  dale  and  moor, 
and  at  last  the  piled  hills.  Here  he  sat,  leaning 
hands  upon  a  great  stick  shaped  like  a  crook,  his 
Bible  open  upon  his  knees.  It  was  a  great  book, 
large  of  print,  read  over  in  every  part,  but  opening 
most  easily  among  the  prophets.  No  cry,  no 
denunciation,  no  longing,  no  judgment  from  Isaiah 
to  Malachi,  but  was  known  to  the  elder  of  the  kirk. 
Now  he  sat  here,  in  his  Sunday  dress,  with  the 
Bible.  At  a  little  distance,  on  the  round  bench,  sat 
Robin  Greenlaw.  The  old  man  read  sternly,  con- 
centratedly  on;  the  young  one  looked  at  the  pur8- 
pie  mountain-heads.  Elspeth  came  around  the 
tree. 

*  *  Grandfather,  dinner  is  ready. — Robin !  we  didn't 
know  that  you  were  here — " 

"I  went  the  way  around  to  speak  with  the  laird. 
Then  I  thought,  'I  will  eat  at  White  Farm — ' " 

"You're  welcome! — Grandfather,  let  me  take  the 
Book." 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  and  bore  it  himself 
withindoors.  Spare  and  unbent  of  frame,  three 
score  and  ten  and  five,  and  able  yet  at  the  plow- 
stilts,  rigid  of  will,  servant  to  the  darker  Calvinism, 
starving  where  he  might  human  pride  and  human 
affections,  and  yet  with  much  of  both  to  starve, 
he  moved  and  spoke  with  slow  authority,  looked 

7  89 


FOES 

a  patriarch  and  ruled  his  holding.  When  presently 
he  came  to  table  in  the  clean,  sanded  room  with 
the  sunlight  on  the  wall  and  floor,  and  when,  stand 
ing,  he  said  the  long,  the  earnest  grace,  it  might 
have  been  taken  that  here,  in  the  Scotch  farm 
house,  was  at  least  a  minor  prophet.  The  grace 
was  long,  a  true  wrestling  in  prayer.  Ended,  a 
decent  pause  was  made,  then  all  took  place,  Jarvis 
Barrow  and  his  daughter  and  granddaughter,  Robin 
Greenlaw,  Thomas  and  Willy,  Menie  and  Men-ran. 
The  cold  meat,  the  bread,  and  other  food  were 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  the  ale  poured.  The 
Sunday  hush,  the  Sunday  voices,  continued  to  hold. 
Jarvis  Barrow  would  have  no  laughter  and  idle 
clashes  at  his  table  on  the  Lord's  day.  Menie  and 
Merran  and  Willy  kept  a  stolid  air,  with  only 
now  and  then  a  sidelong  half -smile  or  nudging  re 
quest  for  this  or  that.  Elspeth  ate  little,  sat  with 
her  brown  eyes  fixed  out  of  the  window.  Robin 
Greenlaw  ate  heartily  enough,  but  he  had  an  air 
distrait,  and  once  or  twice  he  frowned.  But  Jenny 
Barrow  could  not  long  keep  still  and  incurious, 
even  upon  the  Sabbath  day. 

"Eh,  'Robin,  what  was  your  crack  with  the 
laird?" 

"He  wants  to  buy  Warlock  for  James  Jardine. 
He's  got  his  ensign's  commission  to  go  fight  the 
French." 

"Eh,  he'll  be  a  bonny  lad  on  Warlock!  I  thought 
you  wadna  sell  him?" 

"I'll  sell  to  Glenfernie." 

The  farmer  spoke  from  the  head  of  the  table. 
•"I'll  na  hae  talk,  Robin,  of  buying  and  selling  on 

90 


FOES 

the  day!  It  clinks  like  the  money-changers  and 
sellers  of  doves." 

Thomas,  his  helper,  raised  his  head  from  a  plate 
of  cold  mutton.  "Glenfernie  was  na  at  kirk.  He's 
na  the  kirkkeeper  his  father  was.  Na,  na!" 

"Na,"  said  the  farmer.  "Bairns  dinna  walk 
nowadays  in  parents'  ways." 

Willy  had  a  bit  of  news  he  would  fain  get  in. 
"Nae  doot  Glenfernie's  brave,  but  he  wadna  be  a 
sodger,  either!  I  was  gaeing  alang  wi'  the  yowes, 
and  there  was  he  and  Drummielaw  riding  and  gab 
bing.  Sae  there  cam  on  a  skirling  and  jumping 
wind  and  rain,  and  we  a'  gat  under  a  tree,  the  yowes 
and  the  dogs  and  Glenfernie  and  Drummielaw  and 
me.  Then  we  changed  gude  day  and  they  went  on 
gabbing.  And  'Nae,'  says  Glenfernie,  'I  am  nae 
lawyer  and  I  am  nae  sodger.  Jamie  wad  be  the 
last,  but  brithers  may  love  and  yet  be  thinking  far 
apairt.  The  best  friend  I  hae  in  the  warld  is  a 
sodger,  but  I'm  thinking  I  hae  lost  the  knack  o* 
fechting.  When  you  lose  the  taste  you  lose  the 
knack.'" 

"I's  fearing,"  said  Thomas,  "that  he's  lost  the 
taste  o'  releegion!" 

"Eh,"  exclaimed  Jenny  Barrow,  "but  he's  a 
bonny  big  man!  He  came  by  yestreen,  and  I 
thought,  'For  a'  there  is  sae  muckle  o'  ye,  ye  look 
as  though  ye  walked  on  air!'" 

Thomas  groaned.  "Muckle  tae  be  saved,  muckle 
tae  be  lost!" 

Jarvis  Barrow  spoke  from  the  head  of  the  table. 
"If  fowk  canna  talk  on  the  Sabbath  o'  spiritual 
things,  maybe  they  can  mak  shift  to  haud  the 

91 


FOES 

tongue  in  their  chafts!  I  wad  think  that  what  we 
saw  and  heard  the  day  wad  put  ye  ower  the  burn 
frae  vain  converse!'* 

Thomas  nodded  approval. 

"Aweel — "  began  Jenny,  but  did  not  find  just 
the  words  with  which  to  continue. 

Elspeth,  turning  ever  so  slightly  in  her  chair, 
looked  farther  off  to  the  hills  and  summer  clouds. 
A  slow  wave  of  color  came  over  her  face  and  throat. 
Menie  and  Merran  looked  sidelong  each  at  the 
other,  then  their  blue  eyes  fell  to  their  plates.  But 
Willy  almost  audibly  smacked  his  lips. 

"Gude  keep  us!  the  meenister  gaed  thae  sin 
ners  their  licks!" 

"A  sair  sight,  but  an  eedifying!"  said  Thomas. 

Robin  Greenlaw  pushed  back  his  chair.  He  saw 
the  inside  of  the  kirk  again,  and  two  miserable, 
loutish,  lawless  lovers  standing  for  public  discipline. 
His  color  rose.  "Aye,  it  was  a  sair  sight,"  he  said, 
abruptly,  made  a  pause,  then  went  on  with  the 
impetuousness  of  a  burn  unlocked  from  winter  ice. 
"If  I  should  say  just  what  I  think,  I  suppose,  uncle, 
that  I  could  not  come  here  again!  So  I'll  e'en  say 
only  that  I  think  that  was  a  sair  sight  and  that  I 
felt  great  shame  and  pity  for  all  sinners.  So,  feel 
ing  it  for  all,  I  felt  it  for  Mallie  and  Jock,  standing 
there  an  hour,  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the 
other,  to  be  gloated  at  and  rebukit,  and  for  the 
minister  doing  the  rebuking,  and  for  the  kirkful  all 
gloating,  and  thinking,  'Lord,  not  such  are  we!'  and 
for  Robin  Greenlaw  who  often  enough  himself  takes 
wildfire  for  true  light!  I  say  I  think  it  was  sair 
sight  and  sair  doing — " 

92 


FOES 

Barrow's  hand  came  down  upon  the  table. 
"Robin  Greenlaw!" 

"You  need  not  thunder  at  me,  sir.  I'm  done!  I 
did  not  mean  to  make  such  a  clatter,  for  in  this 
house  what  clatter  makes  any  difference?  It's  the 
sinner  makes  the  clatter,  and  it's  just  promptly 
sunk  and  lost  in  godliness!" 

The  old  man  and  the  young  turned  in  their 
chairs,  faced  each  other.  They  looked  somewhat 
alike,  and  in  the  heart  of  each  was  fondness  for  the 
other.  Greenlaw,  eye  to  eye  with  the  patriarch, 
felt  his  wrath  going. 

"Eh,  uncle,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  the  Sunday!" 

Jarvis  Barrow  spoke  with  the  look  and  the 
weight  of  a  prophet  in  Israel.  '  *  What  is  your  quar 
rel  about,  and  for  what  are  ye  fly  ting  against  the  kirk 
and  the  minister  and  the  kirkkeepers  ?  Are  ye  want 
ing  that  twa  sinners,  having  sinned,  should  hae 
their  sin  for  secret  and  sweet  to  their  aneselves, 
gilded  and  pairfumed  and  excused  and  unnamed? 
Are  ye  wanting  that  nane  should  know,  and  the 
plague  should  live  without  the  doctor  and  without 
the  mark  upon  the  door?  Or  are  ye  thinking  that 
it  is  nae  plague  at  all,  nae  sin,  and  nae  blame  ?  Then 
ye  be  atheist,  Robin  Greenlaw,  and  ye  gae  indeed 
frae  my  door,  and  wad  gae  were  ye  na  my  nephew, 
but  my  son!"  He  gathered  force.  "Elder  of  the 
kirk,  I  sit  here,  and  I  tell  ye  that  were  it  my  ain 
flesh  and  blood  that  did  evil,  my  stick  and  my  plaid 
I  wad  take  and  ower  the  moor  I  wad  gae  to  tell 
manse  and  parish  that  Sin,  the  wolf,  had  crept  into 
the  fauld!  And  I  wad  see  thae  folly-crammed  and 
sinfu'  sauls,  that  had  let  him  in  and  had  his  bite, 

93 


FOES 

set  for  shame  and  shawing  and  warning  and  example 
before  the  congregation,  and  I  wad  say  to  the  min 
ister,  '  Lift  voice  against  them  and  spare  not !'  And 
I  wad  be  there  the  day  and  in  my  seat,  though  my 
heart  o'  flesh  was  like  to  break!"  His  hand  fell 
again  heavily  upon  the  board.  "Sae  weak  and 
womanish  is  thae  time  we  live  in!"  He  flashed  at 
his  great-nephew.  "Sae  poetical!  It  wasna  sae 
when  the  Malignants  drove  us  and  we  fled  to  the 
hills  and  were  fed  on  the  muirs  with  the  word  of  the 
Lord!  It  wasna  sae  in  the  time  when  Gawin 
Elliot  that  Glenfernie  draws  frae  was  hanged  for 
gieing  us  that  word!  Then  gin  a  sin-blasted  ane 
was  found  amang  us,  his  road  indeed  was  shawn 
him!  Aye,  were  't  man  or  woman!  'For  while  they 
be  folded  together  as  thorns,  and  while  they  are  drunken 
as  drunkards,  they  shall  be  devoured  as  stubble  fully 
dry!'" 

He  pushed  back  his  heavy  chair;  he  rose  from 
table  and  went  forth,  tall,  ancient,  gray,  armored 
in  belief.  They  heard  him  take  his  Bible  from 
where  it  lay,  and  knew  that  he  was  back  under  the 
fir- tree,  facing  from  the  house  toward  moor  and  hill 
and  mountain. 

"Eh-h,"  groaned  Thomas,  "the  elder  is  a  mighty 
witness!" 

The  family  at  White  Farm  ate  in  silence.  Elspeth 
slipped  from  her  place. 

"Where  are  ye  gaeing,  hinny?"  asked  Jenny. 
"Ye  hae  eaten  naething." 

"I've  finished,"  said  Elspeth.  "I'm  going  to 
afternoon  lark,  and  I'll  be  getting  ready." 

She  went  into  the  room  that  she  shared  with 

94 


FOES 

Gilian   and  shut    the   door.      Robin  looked   after 
her. 

"When  is  Gilian  coming  home?" 

"Naebody  knows.  She  is  sae  weel  at  Aberdeen! 
They  write  that  she  is  a  great  student  and  is  liked 
abune  a',  and  they  clamor  to  keep  her. — Are  ye 
gaeing  to  second  kirk,  Robin?" 

"I  do  not  think  so.  But  I'll  walk  over  the  moor 
with  you." 

The  meal  ended.  Thomas  and  Willy  went  forth 
to  the  barn.  Menie  and  Merran  began  to  clear  the 
table.  They  were  not  going  to  second  kirk,  and 
so  the  work  was  left  to  their  hand.  Jenny  bustled 
to  get  on  again  her  Sunday  gear.  She  would  not 
have  missed,  for  a  pretty,  afternoon  kirk  and  all 
the  neighbors  who  were  twice-goers.  It  was  fair 
and  theater  and  promenade  and  kirk  to  her  in  one 
— though  of  course  she  only  said  "kirk." 

They  walked  over  the  moor,  Jarvis  Barrow  and 
Jenny  and  Robin  and  Elspeth.  And  at  a  cross 
ing  path  they  came  upon  a  figure  seated  on  a  stone 
and  found  it  to  be  that  of  the  laird  of  Glen- 
fernie. 

"Gude  day,  Glenfernie!" 

"Good  day,  White  Farm!" 

He  joined  himself  to  them.  For  a  moment  he  and 
Robin  Greenlaw  were  together. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  hear  them  calling  you?" 
quoth  the  latter.  "I  hear  them  say  'The  wandering 
laird!'" 

Alexander  smiled.     "That's  not  so  bad  a  name!* 

He  walked  now  beside  Jarvis  Barrow.  The  old 
man's  stride  was  hardly  shortened  by  age.  The 

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FOES 

two  kept  ahead  of  the  two  women,  Greenlaw, 
Thomas,  and  the  sheep-dog  Sandy. 

"It's  a  bonny  day,  White  Farm!" 

"Aye,  it's  bonny  eneuch,  Glenfernie.  Are  ye  for 
kirk?" 

"Maybe  so,  maybe  not.  I  take  much  of  my  kirk 
out  of  doors.  Moors  make  grand  larks.  That  has 
a  sound,  has  it  not,  of  heathenish  brass  cymbals?" 

"It  hae." 

"All  the  same,  I  honor  every  kirk  that  stands 
sincere." 

"Wasna  your  father  sincere?  Why  gae  ye  not 
in  his  steps?" 

"Maybe  I  do.  ...  Yes,  he  was  sincere.  I  trust 
that  I  am  so,  too.  I  would  be." 

"Why  gae  ye  not  in  his  steps,  then?" 

"All  buildings  are  not  alike  and  yet  they  may 
be  built  sincerely." 

"Ye're  wrong!  Ye'll  see  it  one  day.  Ye'll  come 
round  to  your  father's  steps,  only  ye '11  tread  them 
deeper!  Ye've  got  it  in  you,  to  the  far  back.  I 
hear  good  oj  ye,  and  I  hear  ill  o'  ye." 

"Belike."  " 

"Ye've  traveled.  See  if  ye  can  travel  out  of  the 
ring  of  God!" 

"What  is  the  ring  of  God?  If  it  is  as  large  as  I 
think  it  is,"  said  Glenfernie,  "I'll  not  travel  out  of 
it." 

He  looked  out  over  moor  and  moss.  There 
breathed  about  him  something  that  gave  the  old 
man  wonder.  "Hae  ye  gold-mines  and  jewels, 
Glenfernie?  Hae  the  King  made  ye  Minister?" 

The  wandering  laird  laughed.  "Better  than 

96 


FOES 

that,  White  Farm,  better  than  that!"  He  was 
tempted  then  and  there  to  say:  "I  love  your  g  and- 
daughter  Elspeth.  I  love  Elspeth!"  It  was  his  in 
tention  to  say  something  like  this  as  soon  as  might 
be  to  White  Farm.  "I  love  Elspeth  and  Elspeth 
loves  me.  So  we  would  marry,  White  Farm,  and 
she  be  lady  beside  the  laird  at  Glenfernie."  But  he 
could  not  say  it  yet,  because  he  did  not  know  if 
Elspeth  loved  him.  He  was  in  a  condition  of  hope, 
but  very  humbly  so,  far  from  assurance.  He 
never  did  Elspeth  the  indignity  of  thinking  that  a 
lesser  thing  than  love  might  lead  her  to  Glenfernie 
House.  If  she  came  she  would  come  because  she 
loved — not  else. 

They  left  the  moor,  passed  through  the  hollow 
of  the  stream  and  by  the  mill,  and  began  to  climb 
the  village  street.  Folk  looked  out  of  door  or  win 
dow  upon  them;  kirk-goers  astir,  dressed  in  their 
best,  with  regulated  step  and  mouth  and  eyes 
set  aright,  gave  the  correct  greeting,  neither  more 
nor  less.  If  the  afternoon  breeze,  if  a  little  run 
let  of  water  going  down  the  street,  chose  to  mur 
mur:  "The  laird  is  thick  with  White  Farm!  What 
makes  the  laird  so  thick  with  White  Farm?"  that 
was  breeze  or  runlet's  doing. 

They  passed  the  bare,  gaunt  manse  and  came  to 
the  kirkyard  with  the  dark,  low  stones  over  the 
generations  dead.  But  the  grass  was  vivid,  and 
the  daisies  bloomed,  and  even  the  yew-trees  had 
some  kind  of  peacock  sheen,  while  the  sky  over 
head  burnt  essential  sapphire.  Even  the  white  of 
the  kirk  held  a  friendly  tinge  as  of  rose  petals  mixed 
somehow  with  it.  And  the  bell  that  was  ending  its 

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FOES 

ringing,  if  it  was  solemn,  was  also  silver-sweet. 
Glenfernie  determined  that  he  would  go  to  church. 
He  entered  with  the  White  Farm  folk  and  he  sat 
with  them,  leaving  the  laird's  high-walled,  cur 
tained  pew  without  human  tenancy.  Mrs.  Grizel 
came  but  to  morning  sermon.  Alice  was  with  a 
kinswoman  of  rank  in  a  great  house  near  Edinburgh, 
submitting,  not  without  enjoyment,  to  certain  fine 
filings  and  polishings  and  lacquerings  and  contacts. 
Jamie,  who  would  be  a  soldier  and  fight  the  French, 
had  his  commission  and  was  gone  this  past  week 
to  Carlisle,  to  his  regiment.  English  Strickland  was 
yet  at  Glenfernie  House.  Between  him  and  the 
laird  held  much  liking  and  respect.  Tutor  no  longer, 
he  stayed  on  as  secretary  and  right-hand  man.  But 
Strickland  was  not  at  church. 

The  white  cavern,  bare  and  chill,  with  small, 
deep  windows  looking  out  upon  the  hills  of  June, 
was  but  sparely  set  out  with  folk.  Afternoon  was 
not  morning.  Nor  was  there  again  the  disciplinary 
vision  of  the  forenoon.  The  sinners  were  not  set 
the  second  time  for  a  gazing-stock.  It  was  just 
usual  afternoon  kirk.  The  prayer  was  made,  the 
psalm  was  sung,  Mr.  M'Nab  preached  a  strong  if 
wintry  sermon.  Jarvis  Barrow,  white-headed,  strong- 
featured,  intent,  sat  as  in  some  tower  over  against 
Jerusalem,  considering  the  foes  that  beset  her. 
Beside  him  sat  his  daughter  Jenny,  in  striped  pet 
ticoat  and  plain  overgo wn,  blue  kerchief,  and 
hat  of  straw.  Next  to  Jenny  was  Elspeth  in  a 
dim-green  stuff,  thin,  besprent  with  small  flowers, 
a  fine  white  kerchief,  and  a  wider  straw  hat. 
Robin  Greenlaw  sat  beside  Elspeth,  and  the  laird 

93 


FOES 

by  Greenlaw.  Half  the  congregation  thought  with 
variations : 

"Wha  ever  heard  of  the  laird's  not  being  in  his 
ain  place?  He  and  White  Farm  and  Littlefarm 
maun  be  well  acquaint'!  He's  foreign,  amaist, 
and  gangs  his  ain  gait!" 

Glenfernie,  who  had  broken  the  conventions,  sat 
in  a  profound  carelessness  of  that.  The  kirk  was 
not  gray  to  him  to-day,  though  he  had  thought  it 
so  on  other  days,  nor  bare,  nor  chill.  June  was 
without,  but  June  was  more  within.  He  also 
prayed,  though  his  unuttered  words  ran  in  and  out 
between  the  minister's  uttered  ones.  Under  the 
wintry  sermon  he  built  a  dream  and  it  glowed  like 
jewels.  At  the  psalm,  standing,  he  heard  Elspeth's 
clear  voice  praising  God,  and  his  heart  lifted  on  that 
beam  of  song  until  it  was  as  though  it  came  to 
Heaven. 

"Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place 

In  generations  all. 
Before  thou  ever  hadst  brought  forth 

The  mountains  great  or  small, 
Ere  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth 

And  all  the  world  abroad, 
Ev'n  thou  from  everlasting  art 

To  everlasting  God." 

"Love,  love,  love!"  cried  Glenfernie's  heart.  His 
nature  did  with  might  what  its  hand  found  to  do, 
and  now,  having  turned  to  love  between  man  and 
woman,  it  loved  with  a  huge,  deep,  pulsing,  world- 
old  strength.  He  heard  Elspeth,  he  felt  Elspeth 
only;  he  but  wished  to  blend  with  her  and  go  on 

99 


FOES 

with  her  forever  from  the  heaven  to  heaven  which, 
blended  so,  they  would  make. 

"...  As  with  an  overflowing  flood 

Thou  earnest  them  away; 
They  like  a  sleep  are,  like  the  grass 

That  grows  at  morn  are  they. 
At  morn  it  flourishes  and  grows, 

Cut  down  at  ev'n  doth  fade — " 

4 'Not  grass  of  the  field,  O  Lord,"  cried  Glen- 
fernie's  heart,  "but  the  forest  of  oaks,  but  the  stars 
that  hold  for  aye,  one  to  the  other — " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  glen  was  dressed  in  June,  at  its  height  of 
green  movement  and  song.  Alexander  and 
Elspeth  walked  there  and  turned  aside  through  a 
miniature  pass  down  which  flowed  a  stream  in 
miniature  to  join  the  larger  flood.  This  cleft  led 
them  to  a  green  hollow  masked  by  the  main  wall 
of  the  glen,  a  fairy  place,  hidden  and  lone.  Seven 
times  had  the  two  been  in  company  since  that 
morning  of  the  flower-sprinkled  cape  and  the  thorn- 
tree.  First  stood  a  chance  meeting  upon  the  moor, 
Elspeth  walking  from  the  village  with  a  basket 
upon  her  arm  and  the  laird  riding  home  after  busi 
ness  in  the  nearest  considerable  town.  He  dis 
mounted;  he  walked  beside  her  to  the  stepping- 
stones  before  the  farm.  The  second  time  he  went 
to  White  Farm,  and  she  and  Jenny,  with  Merran 
to  help,  were  laying  linen  to  bleach  upon  the  sun- 
washed  hillside.  He  had  stayed  an  hour,  and  though 
he  was  not  alone  with  her,  yet  he  might  look  at  her, 
listen  to  her.  She  was  not  a  chatterer;  she  worked 
or  stood,  almost  as  silent  as  a  master  painter's  subtle 
picture  stepped  out  of  its  frame,  or  as  Pygmalion's 
statue-maid,  flushing  with  life,  but  as  yet  tongue- 
holden.  Yet  she  said  certain  things,  and  they  were 
to  him  all  music  and  wit.  The  third  time  had  been 

101 


FOES 

by  the  wisliing-green.  ,  That  was  but  for  a  moment, 
but  he  counted  it  great  gain. 

"Here,1'  she  said,  ''was  where  we  danced!  Mr. 
Ian  Rullock  and  you  and  Robin  and  the  rest  of  us. 
Don't  you  remember?  It  was  evening  and  there 
was  a  fleet  of  gold  clouds  in  the  sky.  It  is  so  near 
the  house.  I  walk  here  when  I  have  a  glint  of  time.'* 

The  fourth  time,  riding  Black  Alan,  he  had  stopped 
at  the  door  and  talked  with  Jarvis  Barrow.  He  was 
thirsty  and  had  asked  for  water,  and  Jenny  had 
called,  "Elspeth,  bring  the  laird  a  cup  frae  the  well!" 
She  had  brought  it,  and,  taking  it  from  her,  all  the 
romance  of  the  world  had  seemed  to  him  to  close 
them  round,  to  bear  them  to  some  great  and  fair 
and  deep  and  passionate  place.  The  fifth  time  had 
been  the  day  when  he  went  to  kirk  with  White  Farm 
and  listened  to  her  voice  in  the  psalm.  The  sixth 
time  had  been  again  upon  the  moor.  The  seventh 
time  was  this.  He  had  come  down  through  the 
glen  as  he  had  done  before.  He  had  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  this  day  more  than  another  he  would 
find  her,  but  there,  half  a  mile  from  White  Farm, 
he  came  upon  her,  standing,  watching  a  Hntwhite's 
nest.  They  walked  together,  and  when  that  little, 
right-angled,  infant  fellow  of  the  glen  opened  to 
them  they  turned  and  followed  its  bright  rivulet  to 
the  green  hidden  hollow. 

The  earth  lay  warm  and  dry,  clad  with  short  turf. 
They  sat  down  beneath  an  oak-tree.  None  would 
come  this  way;  they  had  to  themselves  a  bright 
span  of  time  and  place.  Elspeth  looked  at  him 
with  brown,  friendly  eyes.  Each  time  she  met  him 
her  eyes  grew  more  kind;  more  and  more  she  liked 

102 


FOES 

the  laird.  Something  fluttered  in  her  nature;  like 
a  bird  in  a  room  with  many  windows  and  all  but  one 
closed,  it  turned  now  this  way,  now  that,  seeking 
the  open  lattice.  There  was  the  lovely  world — 
which  way  to  it  ?  And  the  window  that  in  a  dream 
had  seemed  to  her  to  open  was  mayhap  closed,  and 
another  that  she  had  not  noted  mayhap  opening. 
...  But  Glenfernie,  winged,  was  in  that  world,  and 
now  all  that  he,  desired  was  that  the  bright  bird 
should  fly  to  him  there.  But  until  to-day  patience 
and  caution  and  much  humility  had  kept  him  from 
direct  speech.  He  knew  that  she  had  not  loved,  as 
he  had  done,  at  once.  He  had  set  himself  to  win 
her  to  love  him.  But  so  great  was  his  passion  that 
now  he  thought: 

"Surely  not  one,  but  two  as  one,  make  this  ter 
rible  and  happy  furnace!"  He  thought,  "I  will 
speak  now,"  and  then  delayed  over  the  words. 

' '  This  is  a  bonny,  wee  place !' '  said  Elspeth.  ' '  Did 
you  never  hear  the  old  folks  tell  that  your  great- 
grandmother,  that  was  among  the  persecuted,  loved 
it  ?  When  your  father  was  a  laddie  they  often  used 
to  sit  here,  the  two  of  them.  They  were  great 
wanderers  together." 

"I  never  heard  it,"  said  Alexander.  "Almost  it 
seems  too  bright.  ..." 

They  sat  in  silence,  but  the  train  of  thought 
started  went  on  with  Glenfernie: 

"But  perhaps  she  never  went  so  far  as  the 
Kelpie's  Pool." 

"The  Kelpie's  Pool!  ...  I  do  not  like  that  place! 
Tell  me,  Glenfernie,  wonders  of  travel." 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?" 
103 


FOES 

"Tell  me  of  the  East.  Tell  me  what  like  is  the 
Sea  of  Galilee." 

Glenfernie  talked,  since  Elspeth  bade  him  talk. 
He  talked  of  what  he  had  seen  and  known,  and  that 
brought  him,  with  the  aid  of  questions  from  the 
woman  listening,  to  talk  of  himself.  "I  had  a 
strange  kind  of  youth.  ...  So  many  dim,  struggling 
longings,  dreams,  aspirings! — but  I  think  they  may 
be  always  there  with  youth." 

"Yes,  they  are,"  said  Elspeth. 

"We  talked  of  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  Something  like 
that  was  the  strangeness  with  me.  Black  rifts  and 
whirlpools  and  dead  tarns  within  me,  opening  up 
now  and  again,  lifted  as  by  a  trembling  of  the  earth, 
coming  up  from  the  past !  Angers  and  broodings,  and 
things  seen  in  flashes — then  all  gone  as  the  light 
ning  goes,  and  the  mind  does  not  hold  what  was 
shown.  ...  I  became  a  man  and  it  ceased.  Some 
times  I  know  that  in  sleep  or  dream  I  have  been 
beside  a  kelpie  pool.  But  I  think  the  better  part 
of  me  has  drained  them  where  they  lay  under  open 
sky."  He  laughed,  put  his  hands  over  his  face  for 
a  moment,  then,  dropping  them,  whistled  to  the 
blackbirds  aloft  in  the  oak-tree. 

"And  now?" 

"Now  there  is  clean  fire  in  me!"  He  turned  to 
her;  he  drew  himself  nearer  over  the  sward.  "El 
speth,  Elspeth,  Elspeth!  do  not  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  know  that  I  love  you!" 

"Love  me — love  me?"  answered  Elspeth.  She 
rose  from  her  earthen  chair;  she  moved  as  if  to 
leave  the  place;  then  she  stood  still.  "Perhaps  a 
part  of  me  knew  and  a  part  did  not  know.  ...  I  will 

104 


FOES 

try  to  be  honest,  for  you  are  honest,  Glenfernie! 
Yes,  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  let  myself  perceive 
and  think  and  say  that  I  knew.  .  .  .  And  now  what 
will  I  say?" 

"Say  that  you  love  me!  Say  that  you  love  and 
will  marry  me!" 

"I  like  you  and  I  trust  you,  but  I  feel  no  more, 
Glenfernie,  I  feel  no  more!" 

"It  may  grow,  Elspeth — " 

Elspeth  moved  to  the  stem  of  the  oak  beneath 
which  they  had  been  seated.  She  raised  her  arm 
and  rested  it  against  the  bark,  then  laid  her  forehead 
upon  the  warm  molded  flesh  in  the  blue  print  sleeve. 
For  some  moments  she  stayed  so,  with  hidden  face, 
unmoving  against  the  bole  of  the  tree,  like  a  relief 
done  of  old  by  some  wonderful  artist.  The  laird 
of  Glenfernie,  watching  her,  felt,  such  was  his 
passion,  the  whole  of  earth  and  sky,  the  whole  of 
time,  draw  to  just  this  point,  hang  on  just  her  move 
ment  and  her  word. 

"Elspeth!"  he  cried  at  last.     "Elspeth!" 

Elspeth  turned,  but  she  stood  yet  against  the 
tree.  Now  both  arms  were  lifted;  she  had  for  a 
moment  the  appearance  of  one  who  hung  upon  the 
tree.  Her  eyes  were  wet,  tears  were  upon  her  cheek. 
She  shook  them  off,  then  left  the  oak  and  came  a 
step  or  two  toward  him.  "There  is  something  in 
my  brain  and  heart  that  tells  me  what  love  is. 
When  I  love  I  shall  love  hard.  ...  I  have  had  fancies. 
.  .  .  But,  like  yours,  Glenfernie,  their  times  are  out 
grown  and  gone  by.  ...  It's  clear  to  try.  I  like  you 
so  much!,  but  I  do  not  love  now — and  I'll  not  wed 
and  come  to  Glenfernie  House  until  I  do." 
8  I05 


FOES 

"'It's  clear  to  try,'  you  said." 

Elspeth  looked  at  him  long.  ' '  If  it  is  there,  even 
little  and  far  away,  I'll  try  to  bend  my  steps  the 
way  shall  bring  it  nearer.  But,  oh,  Glenfernie,  it 
may  be  that  there  is  naught  upon  the  road!" 

"Will  you  journey  to  look  for  it?  That's  all  I 
ask  now.  Will  you  journey  to  look  for  it?" 

"Yes,  I  may  promise  that.  And  I  do  not  know," 
said  Elspeth,  wonderingly,  "what  keeps  me  from 
thinking  I'll  meet  it."  She  sat  down  among  the 
oak  roots.  "Let  us  rest  a  bit,  and  say  no  word, 
and  then  go  home." 

The  sunlight  filled  the  hollow,  the  wimpling  burn 
took  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  breeze  whispered  among 
the  oak  leaves.  The  two  sat  and  gazed  at  the  day, 
at  the  grass,  at  the  little  thorn- trees  and  hazels 
that  ringed  the  place  around.  They  sat  very  still, 
seeking  composure.  She  gained  it  first. 

"When  will  your  sister  be  coming  home?" 

"It  is  not  settled.  Glenfernie  House  was  sad  of 
late  years.  She  ought  to  have  the  life  and  bright 
ness  that  she's  getting  now." 

"And  will  you  travel  no  more?" 

He  saw  as  in  a  lightning  glare  that  she  pictured 
no  change  for  him  beyond  such  as  being  laird  would 
make.  He  was  glad  when  the  flash  went  and  he 
could  forget  what  it  had  of  destructive  and  desolat 
ing.  He  would  drag  hope  down  from  the  sky  above 
the  sky  of  lightnings.  He  spoke. 

"There  were  duties  now  to  be  taken  up.  I  could 
not  stay  away  all  nor  most  nor  much  of  the  time. 
I  saw  that.  But  I  could  study  here,  and  once  in  a 
while  run  somewhere  over  the  earth.  .  .  .  But  now  I 

106 


FOES 

would  stay  in  this  dale  till  I  die!  Unless  you  were 
with  me — the  two  of  us  going  to  see  the  sights  of  the 
earth,  and  then  returning  home — going  and  returning 
— going  and  returning  —  and  both  a  great  sweet 
ness—" 

"Oh!"  breathed  Elspeth.  She  put  her  hands 
again  over  her  eyes,  and  she  saw,  unrolling,  a  great 
fair  life  if — if —  She  rose  to  her  feet.  "Let  us 
go!  It  grows  late.  They'll  miss  me." 

They  came  into  the  glen  and  so  went  down  with 
the  stream  to  the  open  land  and  to  White  Farm. 

"Where  hae  you  been?"  asked  Jenny.  "Here 
was  father  hame  frae  the  shearing  with  his  eyes 
blurred,  speiring  for  you  to  read  to  him!" 

"I  was  walking  by  the  glen  and  the  laird  came 
down  through,  so  we  made  here  together.  Where 
is  grandfather?" 

"He  wadna  sit  waiting.  He's  gane  to  walk  on 
the  muir.  Will  ye  na  bide,  Glenfernie?" 

But  the  laird  would  not  stay.  It  was  wearing 
toward  sunset.  Menie,  withindoors,  called  Jenny. 
The  latter  turned  away.  Glenfernie  spoke  to 
Elspeth. 

"If  I  find  your  grandfather  on  the  moor  I  shall 
speak  of  this  that  is  between  us.  Do  not  look  so 
troubled!  'If  or  'if  not'  it  is  better  to  tell.  So 
you  will  not  be  plagued.  And,  anyhow,  it  is  the 
wise  folks'  road." 

Back  came  Jenny.  "Has  he  gane?  I  had  for 
him  a  tass  of  wine  and  a  bit  of  cake." 

The  moor  lay  like  a  stiffened  billow  of  the  sea, 
green  with  purple  glints.  The  clear  western  sky 
was  ruddy  gold,  the  sun's  great  ball  approaching 

107 


FOES 

the  horizon.  But  when  it  dipped  the  short  June 
night  would  know  little  dark  in  this  northern  land. 
The  air  struck  most  fresh  and  pure.  Glenfernie  came 
presently  upon  the  old  farmer,  found  him  seated  upon 
a  bit  of  bank,  his  gray  plaid  about  him,  his  crook- 
like  stick  planted  before  him,  his  eyes  upon  the  west 
ern  sea  of  glory.  The  younger  man  stopped  beside 
him,  settled  down  upon  the  bank,  and  gazed  with 
the  elder  into  the  ocean  of  colored  air. 

"Ae  gowden  floor  as  though  it  were  glass,"  said 
Jarvis  Barrow.  "Ae  gowden  floor  and  ae  river 
named  of  Life,  passing  the  greatness  of  Orinoco  or 
Amazon.  And  the  tree  of  life  for  the  healing  of  the 
nations.  And  a'  the  trees  that  ever  leafed  or  flowered, 
ta'en  together,  but  ae  withered  twig  to  that!" 

Glenfernie  gazed  with  him.  ' '  I  do  not  doubt  that 
there  will  come  a  day  when  we'll  walk  over  the  plains 
of  the  sun — the  flesh  of  our  body  then  as  gauze, 
moved  at  will  where  we  please  and  swift  as  thought 
— inner  and  outer  motion  keeping  time  with  the 
beat  and  rhythm  of  that  where  we  are — " 

"The  young  do  not  speak  the  auld  tongue." 

"Tongues  alter  with  the  rest." 

Silence  fell  while  the  sun  reddened,  going  nearer 
to  the  mountain  brow.  The  young  man  and  the  old, 
the  farmer  and  the  laird,  sat  still.  The  air  struck 
more  freshly,  stronger,  coming  from  the  sea.  Far 
off  a  horn  was  blown,  a  dog  barked. 

"Will  ye  be  hame  now  for  gude,  Glenfernie? 
Lairds  should  bide  in  their  ain  houses  if  the  land 
is  to  have  any  gude  of  them." 

"I  wish  to  stay,  White  Farm,  the  greatest  part 
of  the  year  round.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  very 

108 


FOES 

seriously.  Think  back  a  moment  to  my  father  and 
mother,  and  to  my  forebears  farther  back  yet.  As 
they  had  faults,  and  yet  had  a  longing  to  do  the 
right  and  struggled  toward  it  over  thick  and  thin, 
so  I  believe  I  may  say  of  myself.  That  is,  I  strug 
gle  toward  it/'  said  Alexander,  " though  I'm  not 
so  sure  of  the  thick  and  thin." 

* '  Your  mither  wasna  your  father's  kind.  She  had 
always  her  smile  to  the  side  and  her  japes,  and  she 
looked  to  the  warld.  Not  that  she  didna  mean  to 
do  weel  in  it !  She  did.  But  I  couldna  just  see  clear 
the  seal  in  her  forehead." 

"That  was  because  you  did  not  look  close  enough," 
said  Alexander.  "It  was  there." 

"I  didna  mind  your  uphawding  your  mither. 
Aweel,  what  did  ye  have  to  say?" 

The  laird  turned  full  to  him.  "White  Farm, 
you  were  once  a  young  man.  You  loved  and  mar 
ried.  So  do  I  love,  so  would  I  marry!  The  woman 
I  love  does  not  yet  love  me,  but  she  has,  I  think, 
some  liking. — I  bide  in  hope.  I  would  speak  to  you 
about  it,  as  is  right." 

"Whaisshe?" 

"Your  granddaughter  Elspeth." 

Silence,  while  the  shadows  of  the  trees  in  the  vale 
below  grew  longer  and  longer.  Then  said  White 
Farm: 

"She  isna  what  they  call  your  equal  in  station. 
And  she  has  nae  tocher  or  as  good  as  nane." 

"For  the  last  I  have  enough  for  us  both.  For  the 
first  the  springs  of  Barrow  and  Jardine,  back  in 
Time's  mountains,  are  much  the  same.  Scotland's 
not  the  country  to  bother  overmuch  if  the  one 

109 


FOES 

stream  goes,  in  a  certain  place,  through  a  good  farm, 
and  the  other  by  a  not  over-rich  laird's  house." 

"Are  ye  Whig  and  Kirk  like  your  father?" 

"I  am  Whig — until  something  more  to  the  dawn 
than  that  comes  up.  For  the  Kirk  ...  I  will  tell  truth 
and  say  that  I  have  my  inner  differences.  But  they 
do  not  lean  toward  Pope  or  prelate.  .  .  '  I  am  Chris 
tian,  where  Christ  is  taken  very  universally — the 
higher  Self,  the  mounting  Wisdom  of  us  all.  ...  Some 
high  things  you  and  I  may  view  differently,  but  I 
believe  that  there  are  high  things." 

"And  seek  them?" 

"And  seek  them." 

"You  always  had  the  air  to  me,"  vouchsafed 
White  Farm,  "of  one  wha  hunted  gowd  elsewhaur 
than  in  the  earthly  mine."  He  looked  at  the  red 
west,  and  drew  his  plaid  about  him,  and  took  firmer 
clutch  upon  his  staff.  "But  the  lassie  does  not  love 
you?" 

"My  trust  is  that  she  may  come  to  do  so." 

The  elder  got  to  his  feet.     Alexander  rose  also. 

"It's  coming  night!  Ye  will  be  gaeing  on  over 
the  muir  to  the  House?" 

"Yes.  Then,  sir,  I  may  come  to  White  Farm,  or 
meet  her  when  I  may,  and  have  my  chance?" 

"Aye.  If  so  be  I  hear  nae  great  thing  against 
ye.  If  so  be  ye're  reasonable.  If  so  be  that  in  no 
way  do  ye  try  to  hurt  the  lassie." 

"I'll  be  reasonable,"  said  the  laird  of  Glenfernie. 
"And  I'd  not  hurt  Elspeth  if  I  could!"  His  face 
shone,  his  voice  was  a  deep  and  happy  music.  He 
was  so  bound,  so  at  the  feet  of  Elspeth,  that  he 
could  not  but  believe  in  joy  and  fortune.  The  sun 

no 


FOES 

had  dipped;  the  land  lay  dusk,  but  the  sky  was  a 
rose.  There  was  a  skimming  of  swallows  overhead, 
a  singing  of  the  wind  in  the  ling.  He  walked  with 
White  Farm  to  the  foot  of  the  moor,  then  said  good 
night  and  turned  toward  his  own  house. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TWO  days  later  Alexander  rode  to  Black  Hill. 
There  had  been  in  the  night  a  storm  with  thun 
der  and  lightning,  wind  and  rain.  Huge,  ragged 
banks  of  clouds  yet  hung  sullen  in  the  air,  though 
with  lakes  of  blue  between  and  shafts  of  sun.  The 
road  was  wet  and  shone.  Now  Black  Alan  must 
pick  his  way,  and  now  there  held  long  stretches  of 
easy  going.  The  old  laird's  quarrel  with  Mr.  Archi 
bald  Touris  was  not  the  young  laird's.  The  old 
laird's  liking  for  Mrs.  Alison  was  strongly  the  young 
laird's.  Glenfernie,  in  the  months  since  his  father's 
death,  had  ridden  often  enough  to  Black  Hill.  Now 
as  he  journeyed,  together  with  the  summer  and 
melody  of  his  thoughts  Elspeth-toward,  he  was 
holding  with  himself  a  cogitation  upon  the  subject 
of  Ian  and  lan's  last  letter.  He  rode  easily  a  power 
ful  steed,  needing  to  be  strong  for  so  strongly  built 
a  horseman.  His  riding-dress  was  blue ;  he  wore  his 
own  hair,  unpowdered  and  gathered  in  a  ribbon 
beneath  a  three-cornered  hat.  There  was  perplexity 
and  trouble,  too,  in  the  Ian  complex,  but  for  all  that 
he  rode  with  the  color  and  sparkle  of  happiness  in 
his  face.  In  his  gray  eyes  light  played  to  great 
depths. 

Black  Hill  appeared  before  him,  the  dark  pine 

112 


FOES 

and  crag  of  the  hill  itself,  and  below  that  the  house 
with  its  far-stretching,  well-planted  policy.  He 
passed  the  gates,  rode  under  the  green  elm  boughs 
of  the  avenue,  and  was  presently  before  the  porch 
of  the  house.  A  man  presented  himself  to  take 
Black  Alan. 

"Aye,  sir,  there's  company.  Mr.  Touris  and 
Mrs.  Alison  are  with  them  in  the  gardens." 

Glenfernie  went  there,  passing  by  a  terrace  walk 
around  the  house.  Going  under  the  windows  of 
the  room  that  was  yet  lan's  when  he  came  home. 
Ian  still  in  his  mind,  he  recovered  strongly  the  look 
of  that  room  the  day  Ian  had  taken  him  there,  in 
boyhood,  when  they  first  met.  Out  of  that  vividness 
started  a  nucleus  more  vivid  yet — the  picture  in  the 
book-closet  of  the  city  of  refuge,  and  the  silver  gob 
let  drawn  from  the  hidden  shelf  of  the  aumry.  The 
recaptured  moment  lost  shape  and  color,  returned 
to  the  infinite  past.  He  turned  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  came  into  the  gardens  that  Mr.  Touris 
had  had  laid  out  after  the  French  style. 

Here  by  the  fountain  he  discovered  the  retired 
merchant,  and  with  him  a  guest,  an  old  trade  con 
nection,  now  a  power  in  the  East  India  Company. 
The  laird  of  Black  Hill,  a  little  more  withered,  a 
little  more  stooped  than  of  old,  but  still  fluent, 
caustic,  and  with  now  and  then  to  the  surface  a 
vague,  cold  froth  of  insincerity,  made  up  much  to 
this  magnate  of  commerce.  He  stood  on  his  own 
heath,  or  by  his  own  fountain,  but  his  neck  had  in 
it  a  deferential  crook.  Lacs — rupees — factories — 
rajahs — ships — cottons — the  words  fell  like  the 
tinkle  of  a  golden  fountain.  Listening  to  these  two 


FOES 

stood,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  Mr.  Wother- 
spoon,  Black  Hill's  lawyer  and  man  of  business  down 
from  Edinburgh.  At  a  little  distance  Mrs.  Alison 
showed  her  roses  to  the  wife  of  the  East  India  man 
and  to  a  kinsman,  Mr.  Munro  Touris,  from  Inverness 
way. 

Mr.  Touris  addressed  himself  with  his  careful 
smile  to  Alexander.  '  *  Good  day,  Glenfernie !  This, 
Mr.  Goodworth,  is  a  good  neighbor  of  mine,  Mr. 
Jardine  of  Glenfernie.  Alexander,  Mr.  Goodworth 
is  art  and  part  of  the  East  India.  You  have  met 
Mr.  Wotherspoon  before,  I  think?  There  are  Ali 
son  and  Mrs.  Goodworth  and  Munro  Touris  by  the 
roses." 

Glenfernie  went  over  to  the  roses.  Mrs.  Alison, 
smiling  upon  him,  presented  him  to  Mrs.  Goodworth, 
a  dark,  bright,  black-eyed,  talkative  lady.  He  and 
Munro  Touris  nodded  to  each  other.  The  laird  of 
Black  Hill,  the  India  merchant,  and  the  lawyer  now 
joined  them,  and  all  strolled  together  along  the  very 
wide  and  straight  graveled  path.  The  talk  was 
chiefly  upheld  by  Black  Hill  and  the  great  trader, 
with  the  lawyer  putting  in  now  and  again  a  shrewd 
word,  and  the  trader's  wife  making  aside  to  Mrs. 
Alison  an  embroidery  of  comment.  There  had  now 
been  left  trade  in  excelsis  and  host  and  guests  were 
upon  the  state  of  the  country,  an  unpopular  war, 
and  fall  of  ministers.  Came  in  phrases  compounded 
to  meet  Jacobite  complications  and  dangers.  The 
Pretender — the  Pretender  and  his  son — French  aid 
— French  army  that  might  be  sent  to  Scotland — 
position  of  defense — rumors  everywhere  you  go — 
disaffected  and  Stewart-mad — .  Munro  Touris  had 

114 


FOES 

a  biting  word  to  say  upon  the  Highland  chiefs. 
The  lawyer  talked  of  certain  Lowland  lords  and 
gentlemen.  Mr.  Touris  vented  a  bitter  gibe.  He 
had  a  black  look  in  his  small,  sunken  eyes.  Alex 
ander,  reading  him,  knew  that  he  thought  of  Ian. 
In  a  moment  the  whole  conversation  had  dragged 
that  way.  Mrs.  Good  worth  spoke  with  vivacity. 

"Lord,  sir!  I  hope  that  your  nephew,  now  that 
he  wears  the  King's  coat,  has  left  off  talking  as  he 
did  when  he  was  a  boy!  He  showed  his  Highland 
strain  with  a  warrant!  You  would  have  thought 
that  he  had  been  out  himself  thirty  years  ago!" 

Her  husband  checked  her.  "You  have  not  seen 
him  since  he  was  sixteen.  Boys  like  that  have  wild 
notions  of  romance  and  devotion.  They  change 
when  they're  older." 

The  lawyer  took  the  word.  "Captain  Rullock 
doubtless  buried  all  that  years  ago.  His  wearing 
the  King's  coat  hauds  for  proof." 

Munro  Touris  had  been  college-mate  in  Edin 
burgh.  "He  watered  all  that  gunpowder  in  him 
years  ago,  did  he  not,  Glenfernie?" 

"'To  water  gunpowder — to  shut  off  danger.' 
That's  a  good  figure  of  yours,  Munro!"  said  Alexan 
der.  Munro,  who  had  been  thought  dull  in  the  old 
days,  flushed  with  pleasure. 

They  had  come  to  a  kind  of  summer-house  over 
run  with  roses.  Mr.  Archibald  Touris  stopped  short 
and,  with  his  back  to  this  structure,  faced  the  com 
pany  with  him,  brought  thus  to  a  halt.  He  looked 
at  them  with  a  carefully  composed  countenance. 

"I  am  sure,  Munro,  that  Ian  Rullock  'watered 
the  gunpowder,'  as  you  cleverly  say.  Boys, 


FOES 

ma'am" — to  Mrs.  Goodworth — "are,  as  your  hus 
band  remarks,  romantic  simpletons.  No  one  takes 
them  and  their  views  of  life  seriously.  Certainly 
not  their  political  views!  When  they  come  men 
they  laugh  themselves.  They  are  not  boys  then; 
they  are  men.  Which  is,  as  it  were,  the  preface  to 
what  I  might  as  well  tell  you.  My  nephew  has  re 
signed  his  captaincy  and  quitted  the  army.  Ap 
parently  he  has  come  to  feel  that  soldiering  is  not, 
after  all,  the  life  he  prefers.  It  may  be  that  he  will 
take  to  the  law,  or  he  may  wander  and  then  laird 
it  when  I  am  gone.  Or  if  he  is  very  wise — I  meant 
to  speak  to  you  of  this  in  private,  Goodworth — he 
might  be  furnished  with  shares  and  ventures  in  the 
East  India.  He  has  great  abilities." 

"Well,  India's  the  field!"  said  the  London  mer 
chant,  placidly.  "If  a  man  has  the  mind  and  the 
will  he  may  make  and  keep  and  flourish  and  taste 
power — " 

"Left  the  King's  forces!"  cried  Munro  Touris. 
"Why—!  And  will  he  be  coming  to  Black  Hill, 
sir?" 

"Yes.  Next  week.  We  have,"  said  Mr.  Touris, 
and  though  he  tried  he  could  not  keep  the  saturnine 
out  of  his  voice — "we  have  some  things  to  talk 
over." 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  from  before  the  summer- 
house  into  a  cross-path,  and  the  others  followed  him 
and  his  Company  magnate.  The  Edinburgh  lawyer 
and  Glenfernie  found  themselves  together.  The 
former  lagged  a  step  and  held  the  younger  man  back 
with  him;  he  dropped  his  voice 

"I've  not  been  three  hours  in  the  house.  I've 
116 


FOES 

had  no  talk  with  Mr.  Touris.  What's  all  this 
about?  I  know  that  you  and  his  nephew  are  as 
close  as  brothers — not  that  brothers  are  always 
close!" 

"He  writes  only  that  he  is  tired  of  martial  life. 
lie  has  the  soldier  in  him,  but  he  has  much  besides. 
That  'much  besides'  often  steps  in  to  change  a 
man's  profession." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  persuade  him  to  see  the  old 
gunpowder  very  damp !  I  remember  that,  as  a  very 
young  man,  he  talked  imprudently.  But  he  has 
been,"  said  the  lawyer,  "far  and  wide  since  those 
days." 

"Yes,  far  and  wide." 

Mr.  Wotherspoon  with  a  long  forefinger  turned 
a  crimson  rose  seen  in  profile  full  toward  him.  "  I 
met  him — once — when  I  was  in  London  a  year  ago. 
I  had  not  seen  him  for  years."  He  let  the  rose 
swing  back.  * '  He  has  a  magnificence !  Do  you  know 
I  study  a  good  deal?  They  say  that  so  do  you.  I 
have  an  inclination  toward  fifteenth-century  Italian. 
I  should  place  him  there."  He  spoke  absently,  still 
staring  at  the  rose.  "A  dash — not  an  ill  dash,  of 
course — of  what  you  might  call  the  Borgia  .  .  .  good 
and  evil  tied  into  a  sultry,  thunderous  splendor." 

Glenfernie  bent  a  keen  look  upon  him  out  of 
gray  eyes.  "An  enemy  might  describe  him  so, 
perhaps.  I  can  see  that  such  a  one  might  do  so." 

"Ah,  you're  his  friend!" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Wotherspoon,  straightening  him 
self  from  the  contemplation  of  the  roses,  "there's 
no  greater  thing  than  to  have  a  steadfast  friend!" 

117 


FOES 

It  seemed  that  an  expedition  had  been  planned, 
for  a  servant  now  appeared  to  say  that  coach  and 
horses  were  at  the  door.  Mr.  Touris  explained: 

"I've  engaged  to  show  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goodworth 
our  consioerable  town.  Mr.  Wotherspoon,  too,  has 
a  moment's  business  there.  Alison  will  not  come, 
but  Munro  Touris  rides  along.  Will  you  come,  too, 
Glenfernie?  We'll  have  a  bit  of  dinner  at  the 
*  Glorious  Occasion . ' " 

"No,  thank  you.  I  have  to  get  home  presently. 
But  I'll  stay  a  little  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Alison,  if  I 
may." 

"Ah,  you  may!"  said  Mrs.  Alison. 

From  the  porch  they  watched  the  coach  and  four 
away,  with  Munro  Touris  following  on  a  strong  and 
ugly  bay  mare.  The  elm  boughs  of  the  avenue 
hid  the  whole.  The  cloud  continents  and  islands 
were  dissolving  into  the  air  ocean,  the  sun  lay  in 
strong  beams,  the  water  drops  were  drying  from  leaf 
and  blade.  Mrs.  Alison  and  Alexander  moved 
through  the  great  hall  and  down  a  corridor  to  a 
little  parlor  that  was  hers  alone.  They  entered 
it.  It  gave,  through  an  open  door  and  two  windows 
set  wide,  upon  a  small,  choice  garden  and  one  wide- 
spreading,  noble,  ancient  tree.  Glenfernie  entered  as 
one  who  knew  the  place,  but  upon  whom,  at  every 
coming,  it  struck  with  freshness  and  liking.  The 
room  itself  was  most  simple. 

"I  like,"  said  Alexander,  "our  spare,  clean,  pre 
cise  Scotch  parlors.  But  this  is  to  me  like  a  fine, 
small  prioress's  room  in  a  convent  of  learned  saints !" 

His  old  friend  laughed.  "Very  little  learned, 
very  little  saintly,  not  at  all  prior!  Let  us  sit  in 

118 


FOES 

the  doorway,  smell  the  lavender,  and  hear  the  linnets 
in  the  tree." 

She  took  the  chair  he  pushed  forward.  He  sat 
upon  the  door-step  at  her  feet. 

1 '  Concerning  Ian, ' '  she  said.  * '  What  do  you  make 
out  of  it  all?" 

"I  make  out  that  I  hope  he'll  not  involve  himself 
in  some  French  and  Tory  mad  attempt!" 

"What  do  his  letters  say?" 

"They  speak  by  indirection.  Moreover,  they're 
at  present  few  and  short.  .  .  .  We  shall  see  when  he 
comes!" 

"Do  you  think  that  he  will  tell  you  all?" 

Alexander's  gray  eyes  glanced  at  her  as  earlier 
they  had  glanced  at  Mr.  Wotherspoon.  "I  do  not 
think  that  we  keep  much  from  each  other!  .  .  .  No, 
of  course  you  are  right!  If  there  is  anything  that 
in  honor  he  cannot  tell,  or  that  I — with  my  pledges, 
such  as  they  are,  in  another  urn — may  not  hear,  we 
shall  find  silences.  I  pin  my  trust  to  there  being 
nothing,  after  all!" 

"The  old  wreath  withered,  and  a  new  one  better 
woven  and  more  evergreen — " 

"I  do  not  know.  ...  I  said  just  now  that  Ian 
and  I  kept  little  from  each  other.  In  an  exceeding 
great  measure  that  is  true.  But  there  are  huge 
lands  in  every  nature  where  even  the  oldest,  closest, 
sworn  friend  does  not  walk.  It  must  be  so.  Friend 
ship  is  not  falsified  nor  betrayed  by  its  being  so." 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Mrs.  Alison.  "True  friend  or 
lover  loves  that  sense  of  the  unplumbed,  of  the  in 
finite,  in  the  cared-for  one.  To  do  else  would  be 
to  deny  the  unplumbed,  the  infinite,  in  himself,  and 

119 


FOES 

so  the  matching,  the  equaling,  the  oneing  of  love!" 
She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair;  she  regarded  the 
small,  fragrant  garden  where  every  sweet  and  olden 
flower  seemed  to  bloom.  "Now  let  us  leave  Ian, 
and  old,  stanch,  trusted,  and  trusting  friendship. 
It  is  part  of  oneness — it  will  be  cared  for!"  She 
turned  her  bright,  calm  gaze  upon  him.  "What 
other  realm  have  you  come  into,  Alexander  ?  It  was 
plain  the  last  time  that  you  were  here,  but  I  did 
not  speak  of  it — it  is  plain  to-day!"  She  laughed. 
She  had  a  silver,  sweet,  and  merry  laugh.  '  *  My  dear, 
there  is  a  bloom  and  joy,  a  vivification  about  you  that 
may  be  felt  ten  feet  away!"  She  looked  at  him  with 
affection  and  now  seriously.  "I  know,  I  think,  the 
look  of  one  who  comes  into  spiritual  treasures.  This 
is  that  and  not  that.  It  is  the  wilderness  of  lovely 
flowers1 — hardly  quite  the  music  of  the  spheres!  It 
is  not  the  mountain  height,  but  the  waving,  leafy, 
lower  slopes — and  yet  we  pass  on  to  the  height  by 
those  slopes!  Are  you  in  love,  Alexander?" 

"You  guess  so  much!"  he  said.  "You  have 
guessed  that,  too.  I  do  not  care!  I  am  glad  that 
the  sun  shines  through  me." 

"You  must  be  happy  in  your  love!    Who  is  she?" 

"Elspeth  Barrow,  the  granddaughter  of  Jarvis 
Barrow  of  White  Farm.  .  .  .  You  say  that  I  must 
be  happy  in  my  love.  The  Lord  of  Heaven  knows 
that  I  am!  and  yet  she  is  not  yet  sure  that  she 
loves  me  in  her  turn.  One  might  say  that  I  had 
great  uncertainty  of  bliss.  But  I  love  so  strongly 
that  I  have  no  strength  of  disbelief  in  me!" 

"Elspeth  Barrow!" 

"My  old  friend — the  un worldliest,  the  better- 

120 


FOES 

worldliest  soul  I  know — do  not  you  join  in  that  hue 
and  cry  about  world's  gear  and  position!  To  be 
Barrow  is  as  good  as  to  be  Jardine.  Elspeth  is 
Elspeth." 

"Oh,  I  know  why  I  made  exclamation!  Just  the 
old,  dull  earthy  surprise!  Wait  for  me  a  moment, 
Alexander."  She  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes, 
then,  dropping  them,  sat  with  her  gaze  upon  the 
great  tree  shot  through  with  light  from  the  clear 
ing  sky.  "I  see  her  now.  At  first  I  could  not  dis 
entangle  her  and  Gilian,  for  they  were  always  to 
gether.  I  have  not  seen  them  often — just  three  or 
four  times  to  remember,  perhaps.  But  in  April  I 
chanced  for  some  reason  to  go  to  White  Farm.  .  .  . 
I  see  her  now!  Yes,  she  has  beauty,  though  it 
would  not  strike  many  with  the  edge  of  the  sword. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  see — about  the  mouth  and  the  eyes  and 
the  set  of  the  head.  It's  subtle — it's  like  some 
pictures  I  remember  in  Italy.  And  intelligence  is. 
there.  Enchantment  .  .  .  the  more  real,  perhaps, 
for  not  being  the  most  obvious.  ...  So  you  are  en- 
chained,  witched,  held  by  the  great  sorceress!  .  .  , 
Elspeth  is  only  one  of  her  little  names — her  greal 
name  is  just  love — love  between  man  and  woman. 
...  Oh  yes,  the  whole  of  the  sweetness  is  distilled 
into  one  honey-drop — the  whole  giant  thing  is 
shortened  into  one  image — the  whole  heaven  and 
earth  slip  silkenly  into  one  banner,  and  you  would 
die  for  it!  You  see,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Alison, 
who  had  never  married,  "I  loved  one  who  died.  I 
know." 

Glenfernie  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.     "Noth 
ing  is  loss  to  you — nothing!     For  me,  I  am  more 
9  121 


FOES 

darkly  made.  So  I  hope  to  God  I'll  not  lose  El- 
speth!" 

Her  tears,  that  were  hardly  of  grief,  dropped  upon 
his  bent  head.  "Eh,  my  laddie!  the  old  love  is 
there  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  love.  But  the  larger 

controls Well,  enough  of  that !  And  do  you  mean 

that  you  have  asked  Elspeth  to  marry  you — and 
that  she  does  not  know  her  own  heart?" 

They  talked,  sitting  before  the  fragrant  garden, 
in  the  little  room  that  was  tranquil,  blissful,  and 
recluse.  At  last  he  rose. 

"I  must  go." 

They  went  out  through  the  garden  to  the  wicket 
that  parted  her  demesne  from  the  formal,  wide 
pleasure-sweeps.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  under 
the  great  tree. 

"In  a  fortnight  or  so  I  must  go  to  Edinburgh  to 
see  Ren  wick  about  that  land.  And  it  is  in  my 
mind  to  travel  from  there  to  London  for  a  few 
weeks.  There  are  two  or  three  persons  whom  I 
know  who  could  put  a  stout  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
of  Jamie's  prospects.  Word  of  mouth  is  better  with 
them  than  would  be  letters.  Jamie  is  at  Windsor. 
I  could  take  him  with  me  here  or  there — give  him, 
doubtless,  a  little  help." 

"You  are  a  world-man,"  said  his  friend,  "which 
is  quite  different  from  a  worldly  man!  Come  or 
go  as  you  will,  still  all  is  your  garden  that  you  cul 
tivate.  .  .  .  Now  you  are  thinking  again  of  Elspeth!" 

"Perhaps  if  for  a  month  or  two  I  plague  her  not, 
then  when  I  come  again  she  may  have  a  greater 
knowledge  of  herself.  Perhaps  it  is  more  generous 
to  be  absent  for  a  time — " 

122 


FOES 

"I  see  that  you  will  not  doubt — that  you  cannot 
doubt — that  in  the  end  she  loves  you!" 

"Is  it  arrogance,  self-love,  and  ignorance  if  I 
think  that?  Or  is  it  knowledge?  I  think  it,  and  I 
cannot  and  will  not  else!" 

They  came  to  the  wicket,  and  stood  there  a  mo 
ment  ere  going  on  by  the  terrace  to  the  front  of 
the  house.  The  day  was  now  clear  and  vivid,  soft 
and  bright.  The  birds  sang  in  a  long  ecstasy,  the 
flowers  bloomed  as  though  all  life  must  be  put  into 
June,  the  droning  bees  went  about  with  the  steadiest 
preoccupation.  Alexander  looked  about  him. 

"The  earth  is  drunk  with  sweetness,  and  I  see 
now  how  great  joy  is  sib  to  great  pain!"  He  shook 
himself.  "Come  back  to  earth  and  daylight,  Alex 
ander  Jardine!"  He  put  a  hand,  large,  strong,  and 
shapely,  over  Mrs.  Alison's  slender  ivory  one.  "She, 
too,  has  long  fingers,  though  her  hand  is  brown. 
But  it  is  an  artist  hand — a  picture  hand — a  thought 
ful  hand." 

Mrs.  Alison  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were  tender 
over  him.  "Oh,  man!  what  a  great  forest — what 
an  ever-rising  song — is  this  same  thing  you're  feel 
ing!  And  so  old — and  so  fire-new!"  They  walked 
along  the  terrace  to  the  porch.  "They're  bringing 
you  Black  Alan  to  ride  away  upon.  But  you'll  come 
again  as  soon  as  lan's  here?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  You  may  be  assured  that  if 
he  is  free  of  that  Stewart  coil — or  if  he  is  in  it  only 
so  deep  that  he  may  yet  free  himself — I  shall  say 
all  that  I  can  to  keep  him  free  or  to  urge  him  forth. 
Not  for  much  would  I  see  Ian  take  ship  in  that 
attempt!" 

123 


FOES 

"No!  ...  I  have  been  reading  the  Book  of  Daniel. 
Do  you  know  what  Ian  is  like  to  me?  He  is  like 
some  great  lord — a  prince  or  governor — in  the 
court  maybe  of  Belshazzar,  or  Darius  the  Mede, 
or  Cyrus  the  Persian — in  that  hot  and  stately  land 
of  golden  images  and  old  rivers  and  the  sound  of  the 
cornet,  flute,  harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  and  dulcimer 
and  all  kinds  of  music.  He  must  serve  his  tyrant — 
and  yet  Daniel,  kneeling  in  his  house,  in  his  cham 
ber,  with  the  windows  open  toward  Jerusalem, 
might  hear  a  cry  to  hold  his  name  in  his  prayers. 
.  .  .  What  strange  thoughts  we  have  of  ourselves, 
and  of  those  nearest  and  dearest!" 

"Mr.  Wotherspoon  says  that  he  is  fifteenth- 
century  Italian.  You  have  both  done  a  proper  bit 
of  characterization!  But  I/'  said  Alexander,  "I 
know  another  great  territory  of  Ian." 

"I  know  that,  Glenfernie!  And  so  do  I  know 
other  good  realms  of  Ian.  Yet  that  was  what  I 
thought  when  I  read  Daniel.  And  I  had  the 
thought,  too,  that  those  old  people  were  capable 
of  great  friendships." 

Black  Alan  was  waiting.  Glenfernie  mounted, 
said  good-by  again;  the  green  boughs  of  the  elm- 
trees  took  him  and  his  steed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IAN  forestalled  Alexander,  riding  to  Glenfernie 
House  the  morning  after  his  arrival  at  Black 
Hill.  "Let  us  go,"  he  said,  " where  we  can  talk  at 
ease !  The  old,  alchemical  room  ?' ' 

They  crossed  the  grass-grown  court  to  the  keep, 
entered  and  went  up  the  broken  stair  to  the  stone 
walled  chamber  that  took  up  the  second  floor,  that 
looked  out  of  loophole  windows  north,  south,  east, 
and  west.  The  day  was  high  summer,  bright  and 
hot.  Strong  light  and  less  strong  light  came  in 
beams  from  the  four  quarters  and  made  in  the  large 
place  a  conflict  of  light  and  shadow.  The  fireplace 
was  great  enough  for  Gog  and  Magog  to  have  warmed 
themselves  thereby.  Around,  in  an  orderly  litter, 
yet  stood  on  table  or  bench  or  shelf  many  of  the 
matters  that  Alexander  had  gathered  there  in  his 
boyhood.  In  one  corner  was  the  furnace  that  when 
he  was  sixteen  his  father  had  let  him  build.  More 
recent  was  the  oaken  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  two  deep  chairs,  and  shelves  with  many  books. 
After  the  warmth  of  the  sun  the  place  presented  a 
grave,  cool,  brown  harbor. 

The  two,  entering,  had  each  an  arm  over  the 
other's  shoulder.  Where  they  were  known  their 
friendship  was  famed.  Youth  and  manhood,  they 

125 


FOE  S 

had  been  together  when  it  was  possible.  When  it 
was  not  so  the  thought  of  each  outtraveled  separa 
tion.  Their  differences,  their  varied  colors  of  being, 
seemed  but  to  bind  them  closer.  They  entered 
this  room  like  David  and  Jonathan. 

Ian  also  was  tall,  but  not  so  largely  made  as  was 
the  other.  Lithe,  embrowned,  with  gold-bronze 
hair  and  eyes,  knit  of  a  piece,  moving  as  by  one  un 
dulation,  there  was  something  in  him  not  like  the 
Scot,  something  foreign,  exotic.  Sometimes  Alex 
ander  called  him  "Saracen" — a  finding  of  the 
imagination  that  dated  from  old  days  upon  the 
moor  above  the  Kelpie's  Pool  when  they  read  to 
gether  the  Faery  Queen.  The  other  day,  at  Black 
Hill,  this  ancient  fancy,  had  played  through  Alex 
ander's  mind  while  Mr.  Wotherspoon  talked  of 
Italy,  and  Mrs.  Alison  of  Babylonish  lords.  .  .  .  The 
point  was  that  he  relished  Paynim  knight  and  Ren 
aissance  noble  and  prince  of  Babylon.  Let  Ian  seem 
or  be  all  that,  and  richer  yet!  Still  there  would  be 
Ian,  outside  of  all  circles  drawn. 

In  the  room  that  he  called  the  "alchemical," 
Ian,  disengaging  himself,  turned  and  put  both  hands 
on  Alexander's  shoulders.  "Thou  Old  Steadfast!" 
he  cried.  "God  knows  how  glad  I  am  to  see  thee!" 

Alexander  laughed.  "Not  more  glad  than  I  am 
at  the  sight  of  you!  What's  the  tidings?" 

"What  should  they  be?  I  am  tired  of  being  King 
George's  soldier!" 

"So  that  you  are  tired  of  being  any  little  king 
of  this  earth's  soldier!" 

"Why,  I  think  lam—" 

"Kings  'over  the  water'  included,  Ian?" 
126 


FOES 

"Kings  without  kingdoms?  Well,"  said  Ian, 
"they  don't  amount  to  much,  do  they?" 

"They  do  not."  The  two  moved  together  to  the 
table  and  the  chairs  by  it.  "You  are  free  of  them, 
Ian?" 

"What  is  it  to  be  free  of  them?" 

"Well,  to  be  plain,  out  of  the  Stewart  cark  and 
moil!  Pretender,  Chevalier  de  St.  George,  or  un 
crowned  king — let  it  drift  away  like  the  dead  leaf 
it  is!" 

"A  dead  leaf.  Is  it  a  dead  leaf?  ...  I  wonder! 
...  But  you  are  usually  right,  old  Steadfast!" 

"I  see  that  you  will  not  tell  me  plainly." 

"Are  you  so  anxious?  There  is  nothing  to  be 
anxious  about." 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  What  is  'nothing'?" 

Ian  drummed  upon  the  table  and  whistled  "Lilli- 
bullero. "  "  Something — nothing.  Nothing — some 
thing!  Old  Steadfast,  you  are  a  sight  for  sair  een! 
They  say  you  make  the  best  of  lairds!  Every  cot 
ter  sings  of  just  ways!" 

"My  father  was  a  good  laird.  I  would  not  shat 
ter  the  tradition.  Come  with  me  to  Edinburgh 
and  London,  on  that  journey  I  wrote  you  of!" 

"No.  I  want  to  sink  into  the  summer  green  and 
not  raise  my  head  from  some  old  poetry  book!  I 
have  been  marching  and  countermarching  until  I 
am  tired.  As  for  what  you  have  in  your  mind, 
don't  fash  yourself  about  it !  I  will  say  that,  at  the 
moment,  I  think  it  is  a  dead  leaf.  ...  Of  course, 
should  the  Pope's  staff  unexpectedly  begin  to  bud 
and  flower — !  But  it  mayn't — indeed,  it  only  looks 
at  present  smooth  and  polished  and  dead.  ...  I  left 

127 


FOES 

the  army  because,  naturally,  I  didn't  want  to  be 
there  in  case  —  just  in  case  —  the  staff  budded. 
Heigho!  It  is  the  truth.  You  need  not  look 
troubled,"  said  Ian. 

His  friend  must  rest  with  that.  He  did  so,  and 
put  that  matter  aside.  At  any  rate,  things  stood 
there  better  than  he  had  feared.  "I  shall  be  gone 
a  month  or  two.  But  ycfu'll  still  be  here  when  I 
come  home?" 

"As  far  as  I  know  I'll  be  here  through  the  sum 
mer.  I  have  no  plans.  ...  If  the  leaf  remains  dry 
and  dead,  what  should  you  say  to  taking  ship  at 
Leith  in  September  for  Holland?  Amsterdam — 
then  Antwerp — then  the  Rhine.  We  might  see  the 
great  Frederick- — push  farther  and  look  at  the 
Queen  of  Hungary." 

"No,  I  may  not.  I  look  to  be  a  home-staying 
laird." 

They  sat  with  the  table  between  them,  and  the 
light  from  the  four  sides  of  the  room  rippled  and 
crossed  over  them.  Books  were  on  the  table, 
folios  and  volumes  in  less. 

"The  home-staying  laird — the  full  scholar — at  last 
the  writer — the  master  ...  it  is  a  good  fortune!'* 

As  Ian  spoke  he  stretched  his  arms,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  regarded  the  room,  the  fire 
place,  the  little  furnace,  and  the  shelves  ranged  with 
the  quaint,  makeshift  apparatuses  of  boyhood.  He 
looked  at  the  green  boughs  without  the  loophole 
windows  and  at  the  crossing  lights  and  shadows, 
and  the  brown  books  upon  the  brown  table,  and 
at  last,  under  somewhat  lowered  lids,  at  Alexander. 
What  moved  in  the  bottom  of  his  mind  it  would  be 

128 


FOES 

hard  to  say.  He  thought  that  he  loved  the  man 
sitting  over  against  him,  and  so,  surely,  to  some 
great  amount  he  did.  But  somewhere,  in  the  thou 
sand  valleys  behind  them,  he  had  stayed  in  an  inn 
of  malice  and  had  carried  hence  poison  in  a  vial 
as  small  as  a  single  cell.  What  suddenly  made  that 
past  to  burn  and  set  it  in  the  present  it  were  hard 
to  say.  A  spark  perhaps  of  envy  or  of  jealousy, 
or  a  movement  of  contempt  for  Alexander's  "fort 
une."  But  he  looked  at  his  friend  with  half -closed 
eyes,  and  under  the  sea  of  consciousness  crawled, 
half-blind,  half-asleep,  a  willingness  for  Glenfernie 
to  find  some  thorn  in  life.  The  wish  did  not  come 
to  consciousness.  It  was  far  down.  He  thought 
of  himself  as  steel  true  to  Alexander.  And  in  a 
moment  the  old  love  drew  again.  He  put  out  his 
hands  across  the  board.  "When  are  we  going  to 
see  Mother  Binning  and  to  light  the  fire  in  the 
cave?  .  .  .  There  are  not  many  like  you,  Alexander! 
I'm  glad  to  get  back." 

"I'm  glad  to  have  you  back,  old  sworn-fellow, 
old  Saracen!" 

They  clasped  hands.  Gray  eyes  and  brown  eyes 
with  gold  flecks  met  in  a  gaze  that  was  as  steady 
with  the  one  as  with  the  other.  It  was  Alexander 
who  first  loosened  handclasp. 

They  talked  of  affairs,  particular  and  general, 
of  lan's  late  proceedings  and  the  lairdship  of  Alex 
ander,  of  men  and  places  that  they  knew  away  from 
this  countryside.  Ian  watched  the  other  as  they 
talked.  Whatever  there  was  that  had  moved, 
down  there  in  the  abyss,  was  asleep  again. 

"Old  Steadfast,  you  are  ruddy  and  joyous!  How 
129 


FOES 

-.:  si:.:-  I  -  -     .      he  winter?     Four 

Well,  you've  changed.  What  is  h?  ...  Is  it  love? 
Are  you  in  love?" 

"If  I  am—"  Gknfenne  rose  and  paced  the 
r  >:::".  L  ;:v_ir.c  7?  rr.r  n  ~_if-  r.jLrTr~~  ~-~-.~~-i.~~s.  he 
stood  and  looked  oat  and  down  upon  bank  and 
:r.  i  f.eli  :.::  L  :v  •  :r  2-1  e  rer-ir: 

to  the  table.     "IH  tefl  you  about  it." 

He  told.  Ian  sat  and  listened.  The  light  played 
about  him,  shook  gold  dots  and  fines  over  his  green 

COat,   Over  his   hamt^   Iris  faintly  smiling  faf**^   Iris 

head  held  straight  and  high.  He  was  so  well  to 
look  at,  so  "magnificent"!  Alexander  spoke  with 
the  eloquence  of  a  possessing  passion,  and  Ian 

.inc. 


friend.  Even  the  profound,  unreasonable,  tmhumor- 
ous  vfeolJCTn  of  old  Steadfast  had  its  quaint,  Utopian 
appeal  He  was  going  to  marry  the  farmer's  grand 
daughter,  though  he  might,  undoubtedly,  many 
better.  ...  Ian  listened,  questioned,  summed  up: 

"I  have  always  been  the  worldly-wise  one!    Is 
there  any  use  in  my  talking  now  of  workDy  wisdom?" 

"No  use  at  alL" 

"Then  I  won't!  ...  CM  Alexander  the  Great,  are 
you  happy?" 

"If  she  gives  me  her  lore." 

Ian  dismissed  that  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"Oh,  I  think  shell  give  it,  dear  simpleton!"     He 
looked  at   denf  errrie  now  with 
"Well,    on   the   whole,   and   balancing  one   thing 
against  another,  I  think  that  I  want  you  to  be 


Alexander  laughed  at  that  mimficatkxi.     "And 

-5- 


FOES 

my  happiness  is  big  enough — or  if  I  get  it  it  will  be 
big  enough — not  in  the  least  to  disturb  our  friend 
ship  country,  Ian!" 

"I'll  believe  that,  too.  Our  relations  are  old  and 
rooted." 

"Old  and  rooted." 

"So  I  wish  you  joy.  .  .  .  And  I  remember  when  you 
thought  you  would  not  marry'." 

1 '  Oh — memories !  I 'm  sweeping  them  away !  I'm 
beginning  again!  ...  I  hold  fast  the  memory  of 
friendship.  I  hold  fast  the  memory  that  somehow, 
in  this  form  or  that,  I  must  have  loved  her  from  the 
beginning  of  things!"  He  rose  and  moved  about 
the  room.  Going  to  the  fireplace,  he  leaned  his 
forehead  against  the  stone  and  looked  down  at  the 
laid,  not  kindled,  wood.  He  turned  and  came  back 
to  Ian.  "The  world  seems  to  me  all  good." 

Ian  laughed  at  him,  half  in  raillery,  but  half  in 
a  flood  of  kindness.  If  what  had  stirred  had  been 
ancient  betrayal,  alive  and  vital  one  knew  not  when, 
now  again  it  was  dead,  dead.  He  rose,  he  put  his 
arm  again  about  Alexander's  shoulder.  ' '  Glenf ernie ! 
Glenf ernie !  you're  in  deep !  Well,  I  hope  the  world 
will  stay  heaven,  e'en  for  your  sake!" 

They  left  the  old  room  with  its  hauntings  of  a 
boy's  search  for  gold,  with,  back  of  that,  who  might 
know  what  hauntings  of  ancient  times  and  fortress 
doings,  violences  and  agonies,  subduings,  revivings, 
cark  and  care  and  light  struggling  through,  dark 
nights  and  waited -for  dawns !  They  went  down  the 
stair  and  out  of  the  keep.  Late  June  flamed  around 
them. 

Ian  stayed  another  hour  or  two  ere  he  rode  back 


FOES 

to  Black  Hill.  With  Glenfernie  he  went  over  Glen- 
fernie  House,  the  known,  familiar  rooms.  They 
went  to  the  school-room  together  and  out  through 
the  breach  in  the  old  castle  wall,  and  sat  among 
the  pine  roots,  and  looked  down  through  leafy  tree- 
tops  to  the  glint  of  water.  When,  in  the  sun-washed 
house  and  narrow  garden  and  grassy  court,  they 
came  upon  men  and  women  they  stopped  and  spoke, 
and  all  was  friendly  and  merry  as  it  should  be  in  a 
land  of  good  folk.  Ian  had  his  crack  with  Davie, 
with  Eppie  and  Phemie  and  old  Lauchlinson  and 
others.  They  sat  for  a  few  minutes  with  Mrs.  Grizel 
where,  in  a  most  housewifely  corner,  she  measured 
currants  and  bargained  with  pickers  of  cherries. 
Strickland  they  came  upon  in  the  book-room.  With 
the  Jardines  and  this  gentleman  the  sense  of  em 
ployed  and  employee  had  long  ago  passed  into  a 
larger  inclusion.  He  and  the  young  laird  talked  and 
worked  together  as  members  of  one  family.  Now 
there  was  some  converse  among  the  three,  and  then 
the  two  left  Strickland  in  the  cool,  dusky  room. 
Outside  the  house  June  flamed  again.  For  a  while 
they  paced  up  and  down  under  the  trees  in  the 
narrow  garden  atop  the  craggy  height.  Then  Ian 
mounted  Fatima,  who  all  these  years  was  kept  for 
him  at  Black  Hill. 

"You'll  come  over  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

Glenfernie  watched  him  down  the  steep-descend 
ing,  winding  road,  and  thought  of  many  roads  that, 
good  company,  he  and  Ian  had  traveled  together. 

This  was  the  middle  of  the  day. .  In  the  after 
noon  he  walked  to  White  Farm.  ...  It  was  sunset 

132 


FOES 

when  he  turned  his  face  homeward.  He  looked  back 
and  saw  Elspeth  at  the  stepping-stones,  in  a  clear 
flame  of  golden  sky  and  golden  water.  She  had 
seemed  kind;  he  walked  on  air,  his  hand  in  Hope's. 
Hope  had  well-nigh  the  look  of  Assurance.  He  was 
going  away  because  it  was  promised  and  arranged 
for  and  he  must  go.  But  he  was  coming  again — 
he  was  coming  again. 

A  golden  moon  rose  through  the  clear  east.  He 
was  in  no  hurry  to  reach  Glenfernie  House.  The 
aching,  panting  bliss  that  he  felt,  the  energy  com 
pressed,  held  back,  straining  at  the  leash,  wanted 
night  and  isolation.  So  it  could  better  dream  of 
day  and  the  clasp  of  that  other  that  with  him 
would  make  one.  Now  he  walked  and  now  stood, 
his  eyes  upon  the  mounting  orb  or  the  greater  stars 
that  it  could  not  dim,  and  now  he  stretched  himself 
in  the  summer  heath.  At  last,  not  far  from  mid 
night,  he  came  to  that  face  of  Glenfernie  Hill  below 
the  old  wall,  to  the  home  stream  and  the  bit  of 
thick  wood  where  once,  in  boyhood,  he  had  lain 
with  covered  face  under  the  trees  and  little  by  little 
had  put  from  his  mind  "The  Cranes  of  Ibycus." 
The  moonlight  was  all  broken  here.  Shafts  of  black 
and  white  lay  inextricably  crossed  and  mingled. 
Alexander  passed  through  the  little  wood  and 
climbed,  with  the  secure  step  of  old  habit,  the 
steep,  rough  path  to  the  pine  without  the  wall, 
there  stooped  and  came  through  the  broken  wall  to 
the  moon-silvered  court,  and  so  to  the  door  left  open 
for  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  laird  of  Glenfernie  was  away  to  Edinburgh 
on  Black  Alan,  Tarn  Dickson  with  him  on 
Whitefoot.  Ian  Rullock  riding  Fatima,  behind  him 
a  Black  Hill  groom  on  an  iron-gray,  came  over  the 
moor  to  the  head  of  the  glen.  Ian  checked  the 
mare.  Behind  him  rolled  the  moor,  with  the  hollow 
where  lay,  water  in  a  deep  jade  cup,  the  Kelpie's 
Pool.  Before  him  struck  down  the  green  feathered 
cleft,  opening  out  at  last  into  the  vale.  He  could  see 
the  water  there,  and  a  silver  gleam  that  was  White 
Farm.  He  sat  for  a  minute,  pondering  whether  he 
should  ride  back  the  way  he  had  come  or,  giving 
Fatima  to  Peter  Lindsay,  walk  through  the  glen. 
He  looked  at  his  watch,  looked,  too,  at  a  heap  of 
clouds  along  the  western  horizon.  The  gleam  in  the 
vale  at  last  decided  him.  He  left  the  saddle. 

"Take  Fatima  around  to  White  Farm,  Lindsay. 
I'll  walk  through  the  glen."  His  thought  was,  "I 
might  as  well  see  what  like  is  Alexander's  inamo 
rata!"  It  was  true  that  he  had  seen  her  quite  long 
ago,  but  time  had  overlaid  the  image,  or  perhaps  he 
had  never  paid  especial  note. 

Peter  Lindsay  stooped  to  catch  the  reins  that  the 
other  tossed  him.  "There's  weather  in  thae  clouds, 
sir!" 


FOES 

"Not  before  night,  I  think.  They're  moving  very 
slowly." 

Lindsay  turned  with  the  horses.  Ian,  light  of 
step,  resilient,  "magnificent,"  turned  from  the  pur 
ple  moor  into  the  shade  of  birches.  A  few  moments 
and  he  was  near  the  cot  of  Mother  Binning.  A 
cock  crowed,  a  feather  of  blue  smoke  went  up  from 
her  peat  fire. 

He  came  to  her  door,  meaning  to  stay  but  for  a 
good-natured  five  minutes  of  gossip.  She  had  lived 
here  forever,  set  in  the  picture  with  ash-tree  and 
boulder.  But  when  he  came  to  the  door  he  found 
sitting  with  her,  in  the  checkered  space  behind  the 
opening,  Glenfernie's  inamorata. 

Now  he  remembered  her.  ...  He  wondered  if  he 
had  truly  ever  forgotten  her. 

When  he  had  received  his  welcome  he  sat  down 
upon  the  door-step.  He  could  have  touched  El- 
speth's  skirt.  When  she  lowered  her  eyes  they 
rested  upon  his  gold-brown  head,  upon  his  hand  in 
a  little  pool  of  light. 

"Eh,  laddie!"  said  Mother  Binning,  "but  ye  grow 
mair  braw  each  time  ye  come!" 

Elspeth  thought  him  braw.  The  wishing-green 
where  they  danced,  hand  in  hand ! .  .  .  Now  she  knew 
— now  she  knew — why  her  heart  had  lain  so  cold 
and  still — for  months,  for  years,  cold  and  still! 
That  was  what  hearts  did  until  the  sun  came.  .  .  . 
Definitely,  in  this  hour,  for  her  now,  upon  this 
stretch  of  the  mortal  path,  Ian  became  the  sun. 

Ian  sat  daffing,  talking.  The  old  woman  listened, 
her  wheel  idle;  the  young  woman  listened.  The 
young  woman,  sitting  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light, 


FOES 

put  up  her  hand  and  drew  farther  over  her  face  the 
brim  of  her  wide  hat  of  country  weave.  She  wished 
to  hide  her  eyes,  her  lips.  She  sat  there  pale,  and 
through  her  ran  in  fine,  innumerable  waves  human 
passion  and  longing,  wild  courage  and  trembling 
humility. 

The  sunlight  that  flooded  the  door-stone  and 
patched  the  cottage  floor  began  to  lessen  and  with 
draw.  Low  and  distant  there  sounded  a  roll  of 
thunder.  Jock  Binning  came  upon  his  crutches 
from  the  bench  by  the  stream  where  he  made  a 
fishing-net. 

"A  tempest's  daundering  up!" 

Elspeth  rose.  "I  must  go  home — I  must  get 
home  before  it  comes!" 

"If  ye'll  bide,  lassie,  it  may  go  by." 

"No,  I  cannot."  She  had  brought  to  Mother 
Binning  a  basket  heaped  with  bloomy  plums.  She 
took  it  up  and  set  it  on  the  table.  "I'll  get  the 
basket  when  next  I  come.  Now  I  must  go !  Hark, 
there's  the  thunder  again!" 

Ian  had  risen  also.  "I  will  go  with  you.  Yes! 
It  was  my  purpose  to  walk  through  to  White  Farm. 
I  sent  Fatima  around  with  Peter  Lindsay." 

As  they  passed  the  ash-tree  there  was  lightning, 
but  yet  the  heavens  showed  great  lakes  of  blue,  and 
a  broken  sunlight  lay  upon  the  path. 

"There's  time  enough!  We  need  not  go  too  fast. 
The  path  is  rough  for  that." 

They  walked  in  silence,  now  side  by  side,  now, 
where  the  way  was  narrow,  one  before  the  other. 
The  blue  clouded  over,  there  sprang  a  wind.  The 
trees  bent  and  shook,  the  deep  glen  grew  gray  and 

136 


FOES 

dark.  That  wind  died  and  there  was  a  breathless 
stillness,  heated  and  heavy.  Each  heard  the  other's 
breathing  as  they  walked. 

"Let  us  go  more  quickly!    We  have  a  long  way." 

"Will  you  go  back  to  Mother  Binning's?" 

"That,  too,  is  far." 

They  had  passed  the  cave  a  little  way  and  were 
in  mid-glen.  It  was  dusk  in  this  narrow  pass.  The 
trees  hung,  shadows  in  a  brooding  twilight ;  between 
the  close-set  pillars  of  the  hills  the  sky  showed 
slate-hued,  with  pallid  feathers  of  cloud  driven  across. 
Lightning  tore  it,  the  thunder  was  loud,  the  trees 
upon  the  hilltops  began  to  move.  Some  raindrops 
fell,  large,  slow,  and  warm.  The  lightning  ran 
again,  blindingly  bright;  the  ensuing  thunderclap 
seemed  to  shake  the  rock.  As  it  died,  the  cataract 
sound  of  the  wind  was  heard  among  the  ranked 
trees.  The  drops  came  faster,  came  fast. 

"It's  no  use!"  cried  Ian.  "You'll  be  drenched 
and  blinded!  There's  danger,  too,  in  these  tall 
trees.  Come  back  to  the  cave  and  take  shelter!" 

He  turned.  She  followed  him,  breathless,  liking 
the  storm — so  that  no  bolt  struck  him.  In  every 
nerve,  in  every  vein,  she  felt  life  rouse  itself.  It 
was  like  day  to  old  night,  summer  to  one  born  in 
winter,  a  passion  of  revival  where  she  had  not 
known  that  there  was  anything  to  revive.  The  past 
was  as  it  were  not,  the  future  was  as  it  were  not; 
all  things  poured  into  a  tremendous  present.  It 
was  proper  that  there  should  be  storm  without,  if 
within  was  to  be  this  enormous,  aching,  happy 
tumult  that  was  pain  indeed,  but  pain  that  one 
would  not  spare ! 
10  J37 


FOES 

Ian  parted  the  swinging  briers.  They  entered 
the  cavern.  If  it  was  dim  outside  in  the  glen,  it 
was  dimmer  here.  Then  the  lightning  flashed  and 
all  was  lit.  It  vanished,  the  light  from  the  air  in 
conflict  with  itself.  All  was  dark — then  the  flash 
again!  The  rain  now  fell  in  a  torrent. 

"At  least  it  is  dry  here!  There  is  wood,  but  I 
have  no  way  to  make  fire." 

"I  am  not  cold." 

"Sit  here,  upon  this  ledge.  Alexander  and  I 
cleared  it  and  widened  it." 

She  sat  down.  When  he  spoke  of  Alexander  she 
thought  of  Alexander,  without  unkindness,  without 
comparing,  without  compunction,  a  thought  color 
less  and  simple,  as  of  one  whom  she  had  known  and 
liked  a  long  time  ago.  Indeed,  it  might  be  said 
that  she  had  little  here  with  which  to  reproach  her 
self.  She  had  been  honest — had  not  said  "Take!" 
where  she  could  not  fulfil.  .  .  .  And  now  the  laird 
of  Glenfernie  was  like  a  form  met  long  ago — long 
ago!  It  seemed  so  long  and  far  away  that  she 
could  not  even  think  of  him  as  suffering.  As  she 
might  leave  a  fugitive  memory,  so  she  turned  her 
mind  from  him. 

Ian  thought  of  Alexander  .  .  .  but  he  looked,  by 
the  lightning's  lamp,  at  the  woman  opposite. 

She  was  not  the  first  that  he  had  desired,  but  he 
desired  now  with  unwonted  strength.  He  did  not 
know  why — he  did  not  analyze  himself  nor  the 
situation — but  all  the  others  seemed  gathered  up 
in  her.  She  was  fair  to  him,  desirable!  .  .  .  He 
thirsted,  quite  with  the  mortal  honesty  of  an  Arab, 
day  and  night  and  day  again  without  drink  in  the 

138 


FOES 

desert,  and  the  oasis  palms  seen  at  last  on  the 
horizon.  In  his  self -direction  thitherward  he  was 
as  candid,  one-pointed,  and  ruthless  as  the  Arab 
might  be.  He  had  no  deliberate  thought  of  harm 
to  the  woman  before  him — as  little  as  the  Arab 
would  have  of  hurting  the  well  whose  cool  wave 
seemed  to  like  the  lip  touch.  Perhaps  he  as  little 
stopped  to  reason  as  would  have  done  the  Arab. 
Perhaps  he  had  no  thought  of  deeply  injuring  a 
friend.  If  there  were  two  desert-traversers,  or  more 
than  two,  making  for  the  well,  friendship  would  not 
hold  one  back,  push  another  forward.  Race! — and 
if  the  well  was  but  to  one,  then  let  fate  and  Allah 
approve  the  swiftest!  Under  such  circumstances 
would  not  Alexander  outdo  him  if  he  might?  He 
was  willing  to  believe  so.  Glenfernie  said  himself 
that  the  girl  did  not  know  if  she  cared  for  him.  If, 
then,  the  well  was  not  for  him,  anyway?  .  .  .  Where 
was  the  wrong?  Now  Ian  believed  in  his  own  power 
and  easy  might  and  pleasantness  and,  on  the  whole, 
goodness — believed,  too,  in  the  love  of  Alexander 
for  him,  love  that  he  had  tried  before,  and  it  held. 
And  if  he  made  love  to  Elspeth  Barrow  need  old 
Steadfast  ever  know  it?  And,  finally,  and  perhaps, 
unacknowledged  to  himself,  from  the  first,  he  turned 
to  that  cabinet  of  his  heart  where  was  the  vial 
made  of  pride,  that  held  the  drop  of  malice.  The 
storm  continued.  They  looked  through  the  port 
cullis  made  by  the  briers  upon  a  world  of  rain. 
The  lightning  flashed,  the  thunder  rolled;  in  here 
was  the  castle  hold,  dim  and  safe.  They  were  as 
alone  as  in  a  fairy-tale,  as  alone  as  though  around 
the  cave  beat  an  ocean  that  boat  had  never  crossed. 


FOES 

They  sat  near  each  other;  once  or  twice  Ian,  rising, 
moved  to  and  fro  in  the  cave,  or  at  the  opening 
looked  into  the  turmoil  without.  When  he  did  this 
her  eyes  followed  him.  Each,  in  every  fiber,  had 
consciousness  of  the  other.  They  were  as  conscious 
of  each  other  as  lion  and  lioness  in  a  desert  cave. 

They  talked,  but  they  did  not  talk  much.  What 
they  said  was  trite  enough.  Underneath  was  the 
potent  language,  wave  meeting  wave  with  shock 
and  thrill  and  exultation.  These  would  not  come, 
here  and  now,  to  outer  utterance.  But  sooner  or 
later  they  would  come.  Each  knew  that — though 
not  always  does  one  acknowledge  what  is  known. 

When  they  spoke  it  was  chiefly  of  weather  and 
of  country  people.  .  .  . 

The  lightning  blazed  less  frequently,  thunder  sub 
dued  itself.  For  a  time  the  rain  fell  thick  and 
leaden,  but  after  an  hour  it  thinned  and  grew  silver. 
Presently  it  wholly  stopped. 

"This  storm  is  over,"  said  Ian. 

Elspeth  rose  from  the  ledge  of  stone.  He  drew 
aside  the  dripping  curtain  of  leaf  and  stem,  and  she 
stepped  forth  from  the  cave,  and  he  followed.  The 
clouds  were  breaking,  the  birds  were  singing.  The 
day  of  creation  could  not  have  seen  the  glen  more 
lucent  and  fragrant.  When,  soon,  they  came  to  its 
lower  reaches,  with  White  Farm  before  them,  they 
saw  overhead  a  rainbow. 

The  day  of  the  storm  and  the  cave  was  over,  but 
with  no  outward  word  their  inner  selves  had  cove 
nanted  to  meet  again.  They  met  in  the  leafy  glen. 
It  was  easy  for  her  to  find  an  errand  to  Mother 

140 


FOES 

Binning's,  or,  even,  in  the  long  summer  afternoons, 
to  wander  forth  from  White  Farm  unquestioned. 
As  for  him,  he  came  over  the  moor,  avoided  the  cot 
at  the  glen  head,  and  plunged  down  the  steep  hill 
side  below.  Once  they  met  Jock  Binning  in  the 
glen.  After  that  they  chose  for  their  trysting-place 
that  green  hidden  arm  that  once  she  and  the  laird 
of  Glenfernie  had  entered. 

Elspeth  did  not  think  in  those  days;  she  loved. 
She  moved  as  one  who  is  moved;  she  was  drawn 
as  by  the  cords  of  the  sun.  The  Ancient  One,  the 
Sphinx,  had  her  fast.  The  reflection  of  a  greater 
thing  claimed  her  and  taught  her,  held  her  like  a 
bayadere  in  a  temple  court. 

As  for  Ian,  he  also  held  that  he  loved.  He  was 
the  Arab  bound  for  the  well  for  which  he  thirsted, 
single-minded  as  to  that,  and  without  much  present 
consciousness  of  tarnish  or  sin.  .  .  .  But  what  might 
arise  in  his  mind  when  his  thirst  was  quenched? 
Ian  did  not  care,  in  these  blissful  days,  to  think  of 
that. 

He  had  come  on  the  day  of  the  storm,  the  cave, 
and  the  rainbow  to  a  fatal  place  in  his  very  long 
life.  He  was  upon  very  still,  deep  water,  glasslike, 
with  only  vague  threads  and  tremors  to  show  what 
might  issue  in  resistless  currents.  He  had  been  in 
such  a  place,  in  his  planetary  life,  over  and  over  and 
over  again.  This  concatenation  had  formed  it,  or 
that  concatenation;  the  surrounding  phenomena 
varied,  but  essentially  it  was  always  the  same,  like 
a  dream  place.  The  question  was,  would  he  turn 
his  boat,  or  raft,  or  whatever  was  beneath  him,  or 
his  own  stroke  as  swimmer,  and  escape  from  this 

141 


FOES 

glassy  place  whose  currents  were  yet  but  tendrils? 
He  could  do  it;  it  was  the  Valley  of  Decision.  .  .  . 
But  so  often,  in  all  those  lives  whose  bitter  and 
sweet  were  distilled  into  this  one,  he  had  not  done 
it.  It  had  grown  much  easier  not  to  do  it.  Some 
times  it  had  been  illusory  love,  sometimes  ambition, 
sometimes  towering  pride  and  self-seeking,  some 
times  mere  indolent  unreadiness,  dreamy  self-will. 
On  he  had  gone  out  of  the  lower  end  of  the  Valley 
of  Decision,  where  the  tendrils  became  arms  of 
giants  and  decisions  might  no  longer  be  made. 


CHAPTER  XV 

HP  HE  laird  of  Glenfernie  stayed  longer  from  home 
A  than,  riding  away,  he  had  expected  to  do.  It 
was  the  latter  half  of  August  when  he  and  Black 
Alan,  Tarn  Dickson  and  Whitefoot,  came  up  the 
winding  road  to  Glenfernie  door.  Phemie  it  was, 
at  the  clothes-lines,  who  noted  them  on  the  lowest 
spiral,  who  turned  and  ran  and  informed  the  house 
hold.  "The  laird's  coming!  The  laird's  coming!" 
Men  and  women  and  dogs  began  to  stir. 

Strickland,  looking  from  the  window  of  his  own 
high  room,  saw  the  riders  in  and  out  of  the  bronzing 
woods.  Descending,  he  joined  Mrs.  Grizel  upon  the 
wide  stone  step  without  the  hall  door.  Davie  was 
in  waiting,  and  a  stable-boy  or  two  came  at  a  ram. 

"Two  months!"  said  Mrs.  Grizel.  "But  it  used?, 
to  be  six  months,  a  year,  two  years,  and  more !  He: 
grows  a  home  body,  as  lairds  ought  to  be!" 

Alexander  dismounted  at  the  door,  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  twice,  shook  hands  with 
Strickland,  greeted  Davie  and  the  men.  "How- 
good  it  is  to  get  home!  I've  pined  like  a  lost  bainx 
And  none  of  you  look  older —  Aunt  Grizel  hasn't  a 
single  white  hair!" 

"Go  along  with  you,  laddie!"  said  Aunt  Grizel. 
"You  haven't  been  so  long  away!" 


FOES 

The  sun  was  half-way  down  the  western  quarter. 
He  changed  his  riding-clothes,  and  they  set  food 
for  him  in  the  hall.  He  ate,  and  Davie  drew  the 
cloth  and  brought  wine  and  glasses.  Some  matter 
or  other  called  Mrs.  Grizel  away,  but  Strickland 
stayed  and  drank  wine  with  him. 

Questions  and  answers  had  been  exchanged. 
Glenfernie  gave  in  detail  reasons  for  his  lengthened 
stay.  There  had  been  a  business  postponement 
and  complication — in  London  Jamie's  affairs ;  again, 
in  Edinburgh,  insistence  of  kindred  with  whom 
Alice  was  blooming,  " growing  a  fine  lady,  too!" 
and  at  the  last  a  sudden  and  for  a  while  danger 
ous  sickness  of  Tarn  Dickson's  that  had  kept  them 
a  week  at  an  inn  a  dozen  miles  this  side  of  Edin 
burgh. 

"Each  time  I  started  up  sprang  a  stout  hedge! 
But  they're  all  down  now  and  here  I  am!"  He 
raised  his  wine-glass.  "To  home,  and  the  sweetness 
thereof!"  said  Alexander. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  back,"  said  Strickland,  and 
meant  it. 

The  late  sunlight  streamed  through  the  open  door. 
Bran,  the  old  hound,  basked  in  it ;  it  wiped  the  rust 
from  the  ancient  weapons  on  the  wall  and  wrote 
hieroglyphics  in  among  them ;  it  made  glow  the  wine 
in  the  glass.  Alexander  turned  in  his  chair. 

"It's  near  sunset.  .  .  .  Now  what,  just,  did  you 
hear  about  Ian  Rullock's  going?" 

"We  supposed  that  he  would  be  here  through  the 
autumn — certainly  until  after  your  return.  Then, 
three  days  ago,  comes  Peter  Lindsay  with  the  note 
for  you,  and  word  that  he  was  gone,  Lindsay 

144 


FOES 

thought  that  he  had  received  letters  from  great 
people  and  had  gone  to  them  for  a  visit." 

Alexander  spread  the  missive  that  had  been  given 
him  upon  the  table.  "It's  short!"  He  held  it  so 
that  Strickland  might  read: 

GLENFERNIE, — Perhaps  the  leaf  is  not  yet  wholly  sere.  Be 
that  as  it  may  be,  I'm  leaving  Black  Hill  for  a  time. 

IAN  RULLOCK. 

' '  That's  a  puzzling  billet !"  said  Alexander.  ' ' '  Glen- 
jernie—Ian  Rullock!'" 

"What  does  he  mean  by  the  leaf  not  dead?" 

"That  was  a  figure  of  speech  used  between  us 
in  regard  to  a  certain  thing.  .  .  .  Well,  he  also  has 
moods!  It  is  my  trust  that  he  has  not  answered 
to  some  one's  piping  that  the  leaf's  not  dead !  That 
is  the  likeliest  thing — that  he  answered  and  has 
gone.  I'll  ride  to  Black  Hill  to-morrow."  The  sun 
set,  twilight  passed,  candles  were  lighted.  "Have 
you  seen  any  from  White  Farm?" 

"I  walked  there  from  Littlefarm  with  Robin 
Greenlaw.  Jarvis  Barrow  was  reading  Leviticus, 
looking  like  a  listener  in  the  Plain  of  Sinai.  They 
expected  Gilian  home  from  Aberdeen.  They  say 
the  harvest  everywhere  is  good." 

Alexander  asked  no  further  and  presently  they 
parted  for  the  night.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie  looked 
from  his  chamber  window,  and  he  looked  toward 
White  Farm.  It  was  dark,  clear  night,  and  all  the 
autumn  stars  shone  like  worlds  of  hope. 

The  next  morning  he  mounted  his  horse  and  went 
off  to  Black  Hill.  He  would  get  this  matter  of  Ian 
straight.  It  was  early  when  he  rode,  and  he  came 

145 


FOES 

to  Black  Hill  to  find  Mr.  Touris  and  his  sister  yet 
at  the  breakfast-table.  Mrs.  Alison,  who  might 
have  been  up  hours,  sat  over  against  a  dour-looking 
master  of  the  house  who  sipped  his  tea  and  crumbled 
his  toast  and  had  few  good  words  for  anything. 
But  he  was  glad  and  said  that  he  was  glad  to  see 
Glenfernie. 

"Now,  maybe,  we'll  have  some  light  on  lan's 
doings!" 

"I  came  for  light  to  you,  sir." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  hasn't  written  you?" 

"Only  a  line  that  I  found  waiting  for  me.  It 
says,  simply,  that  he  leaves  Black  Hill  for  a  while." 

"Well,  you  won't  get  light  from  me!  My  light's 
darkness.  The  women  found  in  his  room  a  memo 
randum  of  ships  and  two  addresses,  one  a  house 
in  Amsterdam,  and  one,  if  you  please,  in  Paris — 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain/'1 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  left  without  explanation 
or  good-by?" 

Mrs.  AHson  spoke.  "No,  Archibald  does  not 
mean  that.  One  evening  Ian  outdid  himself  in 
bonniness  and  golden  talk.  Then  as  we  took  our 
candles  he  told  us  that  the  wander-fever  had  him 
and  that  he  would  be  riding  to  Edinburgh.  Archi 
bald  protested,  but  he  daffed  it  by.  So  the  next 
day  he  went,  and  he  may  be  in  Edinburgh.  It 
would  seem  nothing,  if  these  Highland  chiefs  were 
not  his  kin  and  if  there  wasn't  this  round  and  round 
rumor  of  the  Pretender  and  the  French  army !  There 
may  be  nothing — he  may  be  riding  back  almost  to 
morrow!" 

But  Mr.  Touris  would  not  shake  the  black  dog  from 

146 


FOES 

his  shoulders.     "He'll  bring  trouble  yet — was  born 
the  sort  to  do  it!" 

Alexander  defended  him. 

"Oh,  you're  his  friend — sworn  for  thick  and  thin! 
As  for  Alison,  she'd  find  a  good  word  for  the  fiend 
from  hell! — not  that  my  sister's  son  is  anything 
of  that,"  said  the  Scotchman.  "But  he'll  bring 
trouble  to  warm,  canny,  king-and-kirk-abiding  folk! 
He's  an  Indian  macaw  in  a  dove-cote." 

They  rose  from  table.     Out  on  the  terrace  they 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  soft,  bright  morning 
light.     Mr.  Touris  seemed  to  wish  company;    he 
clung  to  Glenfernie  until  the  latter  must  mount  his 
horse   and   ride   home.     Only   for   a   moment   did 
Alexander  and  Mrs.  Alison  have  speech  together. 
"When  will  you  be  seeing  Elspeth?" 
"I  hope  this  afternoon." 
"May  joy  come  to  you,  Alexander!" 
"I  want  it  to  come.     I  want  it  to  come." 
He  and  Black  Alan  journeyed  home.     As  he  rode 
he  thought  now  and  again  of  Ian,  perhaps  in  Edin 
burgh  according  to  his  word  of  mouth,  but  perhaps, 
despite  that  word,  on  board  some  ship  that  should 
place  him  in  the  Low  Countries,  from  which  he  might 
travel  into  France  and  to  Paris  and  that  group  of 
Jacobites  humming  like  a  byke  of  bees  around  a 
prince,  the  heir  of  all  the  Stewarts.     He  thought 
with  old  affection  and  old  concern.     Whatever  Ian 
did — intrigued  with  Jacobite  interest  or  held  aloof 
like  a  sensible  man — yet  was  he  Ian  with  the  old 
appeal.     Take  me  or  leave  me — me  and  my  dusky  gold! 
Alexander  drew  a  deep  breath,  shook  his  shoulders, 
raised  his  head.    "Let  my  friend  be  as  he  is!" 


FOES 

He  ceased  to  think  of  Ian  and  turned  to  the 
oncoming  afternoon — the  afternoon  rainbow-hued, 
coming  on  to  the  sound  of  music. 

Again  in  his  own  house,  he  and  Strickland  worked 
an  hour  or  more  upon  estate  business.  That  over 
and  dinner  past,  he  went  to  the  room  in  the  keep. 
When  the  hour  struck  three  he  passed  out  of  the 
opening  in  the  old  wall,  clambered  down  the  bank, 
and,  going  through  the  wood,  took  his  way  to 
White  Farm. 

Just  one  foreground  wish  in  his  mind  was  granted. 
There  was  an  orchard  strip  by  White  Farm,  and 
here,  beneath  a  red-apple  tree,  he  found  Elspeth 
alone.  She  was  perfectly  direct  with  him. 

''Willy  told  us  that  you  were  home.  I  thought 
you  might  come  now  to  White  Farm.  I  was  watch 
ing.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  where  none  was  by. 
Let  us  cross  the  burn  and  walk  in  the  fields." 

The  fields  were  reaped,  lay  in  tawny  stubble. 
The  path  ran  by  this  and  by  a  lichened  stone  wall. 
Overhead,  swallows  were  skimming.  Heath  and 
bracken,  rolled  the  colored  hills.  The  air  swam  cool 
and  golden,  with  a  smell  of  the  harvest  earth. 

1  'Elspeth,  I  stayed  away  years  and  years  and 
years,  and  I  stayed  away  not  one  hour!" 

She  stopped;  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
wall.  The  farm-house  had  sunk  from  sight,  the 
sun  was  westering,  the  fields  lay  dim  gold  and  soli 
tary.  She  had  over  her  head  a  silken  scarf,  the 
ends  of  which  she  drew  together  and  held  with  one 
brown,  slender  hand  against  her  breast.  She  wore 
a  dark  gown;  he  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall. 

"I  watched  for  you  to  tell  you  that  this  must  not 
148 


FOES 

go  on  any  longer.  I  came  to  my  mind  when  you 
were  gone,  Mr.  Alexander — I  came  to  my  mind !  I 
think  that  you  are  braw  and  noble,  but  in  the  way 
of  loving,  as  love  is  between  man  and  woman,  I 
have  none  for  you — I  have  none  for  you!" 

The  sun  appeared  to  dip,  the  fields  to  darken. 
Pain  came  to  Glenfernie,  wildering  and  blinding. 
He  stood  silent. 

"I  might  have  known  before  you  went — I  might 
have  known  from  that  first  meeting,  in  May,  in  the 
glen!  But  I  was  a  fool,  and  vague,  and  willing,  I 
suppose,  to  put  tip  of  tongue  to  a  kind  of  sweetness ! 
If,  mistaken  myself,  I  helped  you  to  mistake,  I  am 
bitter  sorry  and  I  ask  your  forgiveness!  But  the 
thing,  Glenfernie,  the  thing  stands!  It's  for  us  to 
part." 

He  stared  at  her  dumbly.  In  every  line  of  her, 
in  every  tone  of  her,  there  was  finality.  He  was 
tenacious  of  purpose,  capable  of  long-sustained  and 
patient  effort,  but  he  seemed  to  know  that,  for  this 
life,  purpose  and  effort  here  might  as  well  be  laid 
aside.  The  knowledge  wrapped  him,  quiet,  gray, 
and  utter.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  brow;  he 
moved  a  few  steps  to  and  fro;  he  came  to  the  wall 
and  leaned  against  it.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
regarded  the  clay-cold  corpse  of  his  life. 

"O  the  world!"  cried  Elspeth.  "When  we  are 
little  it  seems  so  little!  If  you  suffer,  I  am  sorry." 

"Present  suffering  may  be  faced  if  there's  light 
behind." 

"There's  not  this  light,  Glenfernie.  .  .  .  O  world! 
if  there  is  some  other  light — " 

"And  time  will  do  naught  for  me,  Elspeth?" 
149 


FOES 

"No.  Time  will  do  naught  for  you.  It  is  over! 
And  the  day  goes  down  and  the  world  spins  on." 

They  stood  apart,  without  speaking,  under  their 
hands  the  heaped  stones  of  the  wall.  The  swallows 
skimmed;  a  tinkling  of  sheep-bells  was  heard;  the 
stubble  and  the  moor  beyond  the  fields  lay  in  gold, 
in  sunken  green  and  violet ;  the  hilltops  met  the  sky 
in  a  line  long,  clean,  remote,  and  still.  Elspeth 
spoke. 

"I  am  going  now,  back  home.  Let's  say  good-by 
here,  each  wishing  the  other  some  good  in,  or  maybe 
out  of,  this  carefu'  world!" 

"You,  also,  are  unhappy.     Why?" 

"I  am  not!  Do  I  seem  so?  I  am  sorry  for  un- 
happiness — that  is  all!  Of  course  we  grow  older," 
said  Elspeth,  "older  and  wiser.  But  you  nor  no 
one  must  think  that  I  am  unhappy!  For  I  am  not." 
She  put  out  her  hands  to  him.  "Let  us  say  good- 
by!" 

"Is  it  so?     Is  it  so?" 

"Never  make  doubt  of  that!  I  want  you  to  see 
that  it  is  clean  snapped — clean  gone!" 

She  gave  him  her  hands.  They  lay  in  his  grasp 
untrembling,  filled  with  a  gathered  strength.  He 
wrung  them,  bowed  his  head  upon  them,  let  them  go. 
They  fell  at  her  sides;  then  she  raised  them,  drew 
the  scarf  over  her  head  and,  holding  it  as  before, 
turned  and  went  away  up  the  path  between  the  yel 
low  stubble  and  the  wall.  She  walked  quickly,  dark 
clad;  she  was  gone  like  a  bird  into  a  wood,  like  a 
branch  of  autumn  leaves  when  the  sea  fog  rolls  in. 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  turned  to  his  ancient 
house  on  the  craggy  hill.  .  .  .  That  night  he  made 

150 


FOES 

him  a  fire  in  his  old  loved  room  in  the  keep.  He 
sat  beside  it;  he  lighted  candles  and  opened  books, 
and  now  and  then  he  sat  so  still  before  them  that  he 
may  have  thought  that  he  read.  But  the  books 
slipped  away,  and  the  candles  guttered  down,  and 
the  fire  went  out.  At  last,  in  the  thick  darkness, 
he  spread  his  arms  upon  the  table  and  bowed  his 
head  in  them,  and  his  frame  shook  with  a  man's 
slow  weeping. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  bright  autumn  sank  into  November,  Novem 
ber  winds  and  mists  into  a  muffled,  gray-roofed, 
white-floored  December.  And  still  the  laird  of  Glen- 
fernie  lived  with  the  work  of  the  estate  and,  when 
that  was  done,  and  when  the  long,  lonely,  rambling 
daily  walk  or  ride  was  over,  with  books.  The  room 
in  the  keep  had  now  many  books.  He  sat  among 
them,  and  he  built  his  fire  higher,  and  his  candles 
burned  into  late  night.  Whether  he  read  or  did  not 
read,  he  stayed  among  them  and  drew  what  restless 
comfort  he  might.  Strickland,  from  his  own  high 
room,  waking  in  the  night,  saw  the  loophole  slit  of 
light. 

He  felt  concern.  The  change  that  had  come  to 
his  old  pupil  was  marked  enough.  Strickland's 
mind  dwelt  on  the  old  laird.  Was  that  the  per 
sonality,  not  of  one,  but  of  two,  of  the  whole  line, 
perhaps,  developing  all  the  time,  step  by  step  with 
what  seemed  the  plastic,  otherwise,  free  time  of 
youth,  appearing  always  in  due  season,  when  its 
hour  struck?  Would  Alexander,  with  minor  differ 
ences,  repeat  his  father?  How  of  the  mother? 
Would  the  father  drown  the  mother?  In  the  enor 
mous  all-one,  the  huge  blend,  what  would  arrive? 
Out  of  all  fathers  and  mothers,  out  of  all  causes  ? 

152 


FOES 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Alexander  was  surly. 
Nor,  if  the  weather  was  dark  with  him,  that  he  tried 
to  shake  his  darkness  into  others'  skies.  Nor  that 
he  meanly  succumbed  to  the  weight,  whatever  it 
was,  that  bore  upon  him.  He  did  his  work,  and 
achieved  at  least  the  show  of  equanimity.  Strick 
land  wondered.  What  was  it  that  had  happened? 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  had  happened  here 
in  this  dale.  But  in  all  that  life  of  Alexander's  in 
the  wider  world  there  must  needs  have  been  relation 
ships  of  kinds  established.  Somewhere,  something 
had  happened  to  overcloud  his  day,  to  uncover  an 
cestral  resemblances,  possibilities.  Something,  some 
where,  and  he  had  had  news  of  it  this  autumn.  .  .  . 
It  happened  that  Strickland  had  never  seen  Glen-' 
fernie  with  Elspeth  Barrow. 

Mrs.  Grizel  was  not  observant.  So  that  her 
nephew  came  to  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  so 
that  he  was  not  averse  to  casual  speech  of  house 
hold  interests,  so  that  he  seemed  to  keep  his  health, 
so  that  he  gave  her  now  and  then  words  and  a  kiss 
of  affection,  she  was  willing  to  believe  that  persons 
addicted  to  books  and  the  company  of  themselves 
had  a  right  to  stillness  and  gravity.  Alice  stayed 
in  Edinburgh;  Jamie  soldiered  it  in  Flanders. 
Strickland  wrote  and  computed  for  and  with  the 
laird,  then  watched  him  forth,  a  solitary  figure, 
by  the  fir-trees,  by  the  leafless  trees,  and  down  the 
circling  road  into  the  winter  country.  Or  he  saw 
firelight  in  the  keep  and  knew  that  Alexander 
walked  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  or  sat  bowed  over  a 
book.  Late  at  night,  waking,  he  saw  that  Glen- 
fernie  still  watched. 


FOES 

It  was  not  Ian  Rullock  nor  anything  to  do  with 
liim  that  had  helped  on  this  sharp  alteration,  this 
turn  into  some  Cimmerian  stretch  of  the  mind's 
or  the  emotions'  vast  landscape.  If  Strickland  had 
,at  first  wondered  if  this  might  be  the  case,  the 
thought  vanished.  Glenfernie,  free  to  speak  of  Ian, 
.spoke  freely,  with  the  relief  of  there,  at  least,  a  sunny 
•day.  It  somewhat  amazed  and  disquieted,  even 
while  it  touched,  the  older  man  of  quiet  passions 
and  even  ways,  the  old  strength  of  this  friendship. 
Glenfernie  seemed  to  brood  with  a  mother-passion 
over  Ian.  To  an  extent  here  he  confided  in  Strick 
land.  The  latter  knew  of  the  worry  about  Jacobite 
plots  and  the  drawing  of  Ian  into  that  vortex — Ian 
known  now  to  be  in  Paris,  writing  thence  twice  or 
thrice  during  this  autumn  and  early  winter,  letters 
that  came  to  Glenfernie's  hand  by  unusual  chan 
nels,  smacking  all  of  them  of  Jacobite  or  High 
Tory  transmissals.  Strickland  did  not  see  these 
letters.  Of  them  Alexander  said  only  that  Ian 
wrote  as  usual,  except  that  he  made  no  refer 
ence  to  sere  leaves  turning  green  or  a  dead  staff 
budding. 

In  the  room  with  only  the  loophole  windows,  by 
the  firelight,  Alexander  read  over  again  the  second 
of  these  letters.  "So  you  have  loved  and  lost,  old 
Steadfast?  Let  it  not  grieve  you  too  much !"  And 
that  was  all  of  that.  And  it  pleased  Alexander  that 
it  was  all.  Ian  was  too  wise  to  touch  and  finger 
the  heart.  Ian,  Ian,  rich  and  deep  and  himself  al 
most!  Ten  thousand  Ian  recollections  pressed  in 
upon  Alexander.  Let  Ian,  an  he  would,  go  a-lusting 
after  old  dynasties!  Yet  was  he  Ian!  In  these 

i54 


FOES 

months  it  was  Ian  memories  that  chiefly  gave 
Alexander  comfort. 

They  gave  beyond  what,  at  this  time,  Mrs.  Ali 
son  could  give.  At  considerable  intervals  he  went 
to  Black  Hill.  But  his  old  friend  lived  in  a  rare, 
upland  air,  and  he  could  not  yet  find  rest  in  her 
clime.  She  saw  that. 

"It's  for  after  a  while,  isn't  it,  Alexander?  Oh, 
after  a  while  you'll  see  that  it  is  the  breathing,  living 
air!  But  do  not  feel  now  that  you  are  in  duty 
bound  to  come  here.  Wait  until  you  feel  like 
coming,  and  never  think  that  I'll  be  hurt — " 

1  'I  am  a  marsh  thing,"  he  said.  "I  feel  dull  and 
still  and  cold,  and  over  me  is  a  heavy  atmosphere 
filled  with  motes.  Forgive  me  and  let  me  come  to 
you  farther  on  and  higher  up." 

He  went  back  to  the  gray  crag,  Glenfernie  House 
and  the  room  in  the  keep,  the  fire  and  his  books, 
and  a  brooding  traveling  over  the  past,  and,  like  a 
pool  of  gold  in  a  long  arctic  night,  the  image,  nested 
and  warm,  of  Ian.  Love  was  lost,  but  there  stayed 
the  ancient,  ancient  friend. 

Two  weeks  before  Christmas  Alice  came  home, 
bright  as  a  rose.  She  talked  of  a  thousand  events, 
large  and  small.  Glenfernie  listened,  smiled,  asked 
questions,  praised  her,  and  said  it  was  good  to  have 
brightness  in  the  house. 

"Aye,  it  is!"  she  answered.  "How  grave  and  old 
you  and  Mr.  Strickland  and  the  books  and  the  hall 
and  Bran  look!" 

"It's  heigho!  for  Jamie,  isn't  it?"  asked  Alex 
ander.  "Winter  makes  us  look  old.  Wait  till 
springtime!" 


FOES 

That  evening  she  waylaid  Strickland.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  Alexander?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"He  looks  five  years  older.  He  looks  as  though 
he  had  been  through  wars." 

"Perhaps  he  has.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said 
Strickland,  soberly. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Alice — "do  you  think  he 
could  have  had — oh,  somewhere  out  in  the  world ! — 
a  love-affair,  and  it  ended  badly?  She  died,  or 
there  was  a  rival,  or  something  like  that,  and  he 
has  just  heard  of  it?" 

"You  have  been  reading  novels,"  said  Strickland. 
"And  yet—!" 

That  night,  seeing  from  his  own  window  the  light 
in  the  keep,  he  turned  to  his  bed  with  the  thought 
of  the  havoc  of  love.  Lying  there  with  open  eyes 
he  saw  in  procession  Unhappy  Love.  He  lay  long 
awake,  but  at  last  he  turned  and  addressed  himself 
to  sleep.  "He's  a  strong  climber!  Whatever  it  is, 
maybe  he'll  climb  out  of  it." 

But  in  the  keep,  Alexander,  sitting  by  the  fire 
with  lowered  head  and  hanging  hands,  saw  not  the 
time  when  he  would  climb  out  of  it.  .  .  . 

He  went  no  more  to  White  Farm.  He  went, 
though  not  every  Sunday,  to  kirk  and  sat  with  his 
aunt  and  with  Strickland  in  the  laird's  boxlike, 
curtained  pew.  Mr.  M'Nab  preached  of  original 
sin  and  ineffable  condemnation,  and  of  the  few,  the 
very,  very  few,  saved  as  by  fire.  He  saw  Jarvis 
Barrow  sitting  motionless,  sternly  agreeing,  and 
beyond  him  Jenny  Barrow  and  then  Elspeth  and 
Gilian.  Out  of  kirk,  in  the  kirkyard,  he  gave  them 

156 


FOES 

good  day.  He  studied  to  keep  strangeness  out  of 
his  manner;  an  onlooker  would  note  only  a  some 
what  silent,  preoccupied  laird.  He  might  be  pon 
dering  the  sermon.  Mr.  M'Nab's  sermons  were 
calculated  to  arouse  alarm  and  concern — or,  in  the 
case  of  the  justified,  stern  triumph — in  the  human 
breast.  White  Farm  made  no  quarrel  with  the 
laird  for  that  quietude  and  withdrawing.  In  the 
autumn  he  had  told  Jarvis  Barrow  of  that  hour 
with  Elspeth  in  the  stubble-field.  The  old  man 
listened,  then,  "They  are  strange  warks,  women!" 
he  said,  and  almost  immediately  went  on  to  speak 
of  other  things.  There  seemed  no  sympathy  and 
no  regret  for  the  earthly  happening.  But  he  liked 
to  debate  with  the  laird  election  and  the  persever 
ance  of  the  saints. 

Jenny  Barrow,  only,  could  not  be  held  from  ex 
clamation  over  Glenfernie's  defection.  "Why  does 
he  na  come  as  he  used  to?  Wha's  done  aught  to 
him  or  said  a  word  to  gie  offense?"  She  talked  to 
Menie  and  Merran  since  Elspeth  and  Gilian  gave 
her  notice  that  they  were  wearied  of  the  subject. 
Perhaps  Jenny's  concern  with  it  kept  her  from  the 
perception  that  not  Glenfernie  only  was  changing 
or  had  changed.  Elspeth — !  But  Elspeth  had  been 
always  a  dreamer,  rather  silent,  a  listener  rather 
than  a  speaker.  Jenny  did  not  look  around  corners ; 
the  overt  sufficed  for  a  bustling,  good-natured  life. 
Gilian's  arrival,  moreover,  made  for  a  diversion  of 
attention.  By  the  time  novelty  subsided  again  into 
every  day  an  altered  Elspeth  had  so  fitted  into  the 
frame  of  life  that  Jenny  was  unaware  of  alteration. 

But  Gilian  was  not  Jenny. 


FOES 

Each  of  Jarvis  Barrow's  granddaughters  had  her 
own  small  bedroom.  Three  nights  after  Gilian's 
home-coming  she  came,  when  the  candles  were  out, 
into  Elspeth's  room.  It  was  September  and,  for 
the  season,  warm.  A  great  round  moon  poured  its 
light  into  the  little  room.  Elspeth  was  seated  upon 
her  bed.  Her  hair  was  loosened  and  fell  over  her 
white  gown.  Her  feet  were  under  her;  she  sat  like 
an  Eastern  carving,  still  in  the  moonlight. 

"Elspeth!" 

Elspeth  took  a  moment  to  come  back  to  Wliite 
Farm.  "What  is  it,  Gilian?" 

Gilian  moved  to  the  window  and  sat  in  it.  She 
had  not  undressed.  The  moon  silvered  her,  too. 
"What  has  happened,  Elspeth?" 

"Naught.     What  should  happen?" 

"It's  no  use  telling  me  that. — We've  been  away 
from  each  other  almost  a  year.  I  know  that  I've 
changed,  grown,  in  that  time,  and  it's  natural  that 
you  should  do  the  same.  But  it's  something  be 
sides  that!" 

Elspeth  laughed  and  her  laughter  was  like  a  little, 
cold,  mirthless  chime  of  silver  bells.  "You're  fanci 
ful,  Gilian ! . . .  We're  no  longer  lassies ;  we're  women ! 
So  the  colors  of  things  get  a  little  different — that's 
all!" 

"Don't  you  love  me,  Elspeth?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you.    What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Has  it  not?  Has  love  naught  to  do  with  it? 
Love  at  all — all  love?" 

Elspeth  parted  her  long  dark  hair  into  two  waves, 
drew  it  before  her,  and  began  to  braid  it,  sitting  still, 
her  limbs  under  her,  upon  the  bed.  "I  saw  you  on 

158 


FOES 

the  moor  walking  and  talking  with  grandfather.. 
What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"You  are  changed  and  I  said  that  you  were 
changed.  He  had  not  noticed — he  would  not  be 
like  to  notice!  Then  he  told  me  about  the  laird 
and  you." 

"Yes.  About  the  laird  and  me." 

"You  couldn't  love  him?  They  say  he  is  a  fine 
man." 

"No,  I  couldn't  love  him.  I  like  him.  He 
understands.  No  one  is  to  blame." 

"But  if  it  is  not  that,  what  is  it; — what  is  it, 
Elspeth?" 

"It's  naught — naught — naught,  I  tell  you!" 

"It's  a  strange  naught  that  makes  you  like  a  dark 
lady  in  a  ballad-book!" 

Elspeth  laughed  again.  "Didn't  I  say  that  you 
were  fanciful?  It's  late  and  I  am  sleepy." 

That  had  been  while  the  leaves  were  still  upon 
the  trees.  The  next  morning  and  thenceforward 
Elspeth  seemed  to  make  a  point  of  cheerfulness.,  It 
passed  with  her  aunt  and  the  helpers  in  the  house. 
Jarvis  Barrow  appeared  to  take  no  especial  note  if 
women  laughed  or  sighed,  so  long  as  they  lived 
irreproachably. 

The  leaves  bronzed,  the  autumn  rains  came,  the 
leaves  fell,  the  trees  stood  bare,  the  winds  began 
to  blow,  there  fell  the  first  snowflakes.  Gilian, 
walking  home  from  the  town,  was  overtaken  on 
the  moor  by  Robin  Greenlaw. 

"Where  is  Elspeth?" 

"We  are  making  our  winter  dresses.  She  would 
not  leave  her  sewing." 


FOES 

The  cousins  walked  upon  the  moor  path  together. 
Gilian  was  fairer  and  more  strongly  made  than  El 
speth.  They  walked  in  silence;  then  said  Robin: 

"You're  the  old  Gilian,  but  I'm  sure  I  miss  the 
old  Elspeth!" 

"I  think,  myself,  she's  gone  visiting!  I  rack  and 
rack  my  brains  to  find  what  grief  could  have  come 
to  Elspeth.  She  will  not  help  me." 

"Gilian,  could  it  be  that,  after  all,  her  heart  is 
set  on  the  laird?" 

"Did  you  know  about  that?" 

"In  part  I  guessed,  watching  them  together. 
And  then  I  saw  how  Glenfernie  oldened  in  a  night. 
Then,  being  with  my  uncle  one  day,  he  let  drop 
a  word  that  I  followed  up.  I  led  him  on  and  he 
told  me.  Glenfernie  acted  like  a  true  man." 

"If  there's  one  thing  of  which  I'm  sure  it  is  that 
she  hardly  thinks  of  him  from  Sunday  to  Sunday. 
She  thinks  then  for  a  little  because  she  sees  him  in 
kirk — but  that  passes,  too!" 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  of  anybody  else. 
Maybe  no  outer  thing  has  anything  to  do  with  it. 
Sometimes  we  just  have  drumlie,  dreary  seasons 
and  we  do  not  know  why.  .  .  .  She  loves  the  spring. 
Maybe  when  spring  comes  she'll  be  Elspeth  once 
more!" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Greenlaw.  "Spring  makes  all 
the  world  bonny  again." 

That  was  in  November.  On  Christmas  Eve  El 
speth  Barrow  drowned  herself  in  the  Kelpie's  Pool. 


160 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TTHERE  had  been  three  hours  of  light  on  Christ- 
A   mas    Day  when   Robin  Greenlaw  appeared  at 
Glenfernie  House  and  would  see  the  laird. 

"He's  in  his  ain  room  in  the  keep,"  said  Davie, 
and  went  with  the  message. 

Alexander  came  down  the  stair  and  out  into  the 
flagged  court.  The  weather  had  been  unwontedly 
clement,  melting  the  earlier  snows,  letting  the  brown 
earth  forth  again  for  one  look  about  her.  To-day 
there  was  pale  sunlight.  Greenlaw  sat  his  big  gray. 
The  laird  came  to  him. 

"Get  down,  man,  and  come  in  for  Christmas 
cheer!" 

'Send  Davie  away,"  said  Greenlaw. 

Alexander's  gray  eyes  glanced.  "You're  bringing 
something  that  is  not  Christmas  cheer! — Davie,  tell 
Dandie  Saunderson  to  saddle  Black  Alan  at  once. — 
Now,  Robin!" 

"Yesterday,"  said  Greenlaw,  "Elspeth  Barrow 
vanished  from  White  Farm.  They  wanted  to  send 
Christmas  fare  to  old  Skene  the  cotter.  She  said 
she  would  take  a  basket  there,  and  so  she  went  away, 
down  the  stream — about  ten  of  the  morning  they 
think  it  was.  It  was  not  for  hours  that  they  grew 
at  all  anxious.  She's  never  come  back.  She  did 

161 


FOES 

not  go  to  Skene's.  We  can  hear  no  word  of  her  from 
any.  Her  grandfather  and  I  and  the  men  at  White 
Farm  looked  for  her  through  the  night.  This  morn 
ing  there's  an  alarm  sent  up  and  down  the  dale." 

"What  harm  could  happen — " 

"She  might  have  strayed  into  some  lonely  place — 
fallen — hurt  herself.  There  were  gipsies  seen  the 
other  day  over  by  Windy  edge.  Or  she  might  have 
walked  on  and  on  upon  what  road  she  took,  and 
somehow  none  chanced  to  notice  her.  I  am  going 
now  to  ride  the  Edinburgh  way." 

"Have  you  gone  up  the  glen?" 

"That  was  tried  this  morning  at  first  light.  But 
that  is  just  opposite  to  Skene's  and  the  way  she  cer 
tainly  took  at  first.  She  would  have  to  turn  and 
go  about  through  the  woods,  or  White  Farm  would 
see  her."  His  voice  had  a  haunting  note  of  fear 
and  trouble. 

Glenfernie  caught  it.  "She  was  not  out  of  health 
nor  unhappy?" 

' '  She  is  changed  from  the  old  Elspeth.  When  you 
ask  her  if  she  is  unhappy  she  says  that  she  is  not. 
...  I  do  not  know.  Something  is  wrong.  With  the 
others,  I  am  seeking  about  as  though  I  expected 
each  moment  to  see  her  sitting  or  standing  by  the 
roadside.  But  I  do  not  expect  to  see  her.  I  do 
not  know  what  I  expect.  We  have  sent  to  Windy- 
edge  to  apprehend  those  gipsies." 

"Let  me  speak  one  moment  to  Mr.  Strickland  to 
send  the  men  forth  and  go  himself.  Then  I  am 
ready. ' ' 

On  Black  Alan  he  rode  with  Robin  down  the  hill 
and  through  the  wood  and  upon  the  White  Farm 

162 


FOES 

way.  The  earth  was  mainly  bare  of  snow,  but 
frozen  hard.  The  hoofs  rang  out  but  left  no  print. 
The  air  hung  still,  light  and  dry;  the  sun,  far  in  the 
south,  sent  slanting,  pale-gold  beams.  The  two 
men  made  little  speech  as  they  rode.  They  passed 
men  and  youths,  single  figures  and  clusters. 

"Ony  news,  Littlefarm?  We've  been — or  we're 
going — seeking  here,  or  here — " 

A  woman  stopped  them.  "It  was  thae  gipsies, 
sirs!  I  had  a  dream  about  them,  five  nights  syne! 
A  lintwhite  was  flying  by  them,  and  they  gave  chase. 
Either  it's  that  or  she  made  away  with  herself!  I 
had  a  dream  that  might  be  read  that  way,  too." 

When  they  came  to  White  Farm  it  was  to  find 
there  only  Jenny  and  Menie  and  Merran. 

"Somebody  maun  stay  to  keep  the  house  warm 
gin  the  lassie  come  stumbling  hame,  cauld  and 
hungry  and  half  doited!  Eh,  Glenfernie,  ye  that 
are  a  learned  man  and  know  the  warld,  gie  us  help!" 

"I  am  going  up  the  glen,"  said  Alexander  to 
Greenlaw.  "I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  think  it 
should  be  tried  again.  And  I  know  it,  root  and 
branch.  I  am  going  afoot.  I  will  leave  Black  Alan 
here." 

They  wasted  no  time.  He  went,  while  Robin 
Greenlaw  on  his  gray  took  the  opposed  direction. 
Looking  back,  he  saw  the  great  fire  that  Jenny 
kept,  dancing  through  the  open  door  and  in  the 
pane  of  the  window.  Then  the  trees  and  the  wind 
ing  of  the  path  shut  it  away,  shut  away  house  and 
field  and  all  token  of  human  life. 

He  moved  swiftly  to  the  mouth  of  the  glen,  but 
then  more  slowly.  The  trees  soared  bare,  the  water 

163 


FOES 

'rushed  with  a  hoarse  sound,  snow  lay  in  clefts. 
So  well  he  knew  the  place !  There  was  no  spot  where 
foot  might  have  climbed,  no  ledge  nor  opening  where 
form  might  lay,  huddled  or  outstretched,  that  lacked 
his  searching  eye  or  hand.  Here  was  the  pebbly 
cape  with  the  thorn-tree  where  in  May  he  had  come 
upon  Elspeth,  sitting  by  the  water,  singing.  .  .  . 
Farther  on  he  turned  into  that  smaller,  that  fairy 
glen,  bending  like  an  arm  from  the  main  pass. 
Here  was  the  oak  beneath  which  they  had  sat, 
against  which  she  had  leaned.  It  wrapt  him  from 
himself,  this  place.  He  stood,  and  space  around 
seemed  filled  with  forms  just  beyond  visibility. 
What  were  they  ?  He  did  not  know,  but  they  seemed 
to  breathe  against  his  heart,  to  whisper.  .  .  .  He 
searched  this  place  well,  but  there  were  only  the 
winter  banks  and  trees,  the  little  burn,  the  invisible 
presences.  Back  in  the  deep  glen  a  hawk  sailed 
overhead,  across  the  stripe  of  pale-blue  sky.  Alex 
ander  went  on  by  the  stream  and  the  projecting 
rock  and  the  twisted  roots.  There  was  no  sound 
other  than  the  loud  voice  of  the  water,  talking  only 
of  its  return  to  the  sea.  When  he  came  to  the  cave 
he  pushed  aside  the  masking  growth  and  entered. 
Dark  and  barren  here,  with  the  ashes  of  an  old  fire ! 
For  one  moment,  as  it  were  distinctly,  he  saw  Ian. 
He  stood  so  clear  in  the  mind's  eye  that  it  seemed 
that  one  intense  effort  might  have  set  him  bodily 
in  the  cavern.  But  the  central  strength  let  the 
image  go.  Alexander  moved  the  ashes  of  the  fire 
with  his  foot,  shuddered  in  the  place  of  cold  and 
shadow,  and,  stooping,  went  out  of  the  cave  and  on 
upon  his  search  for  Elspeth  Barrow. 

164 


FOES 

He  sought  the  glen  through,  and  at  last,  at  the 
head,  he  came  to  Mother  Binning's  cot.  Her  fire 
was  burning;  she  was  standing  in  the  door  looking 
toward  him. 

4 'Eh,  Glenfernie!  is  there  news  of  the  lassie?" 

"None.  You've  got  the  sight.  Can  you  not 
see?ft 

"It's  gane  from  me!  When  it  gaes  I'm  just  like 
ony  bird  with  a  broken  wing." 

"If  you  cannot  see,  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  dinna  want  to  think  and  I  dinna  want  to  say. 
Whaur  be  ye  gaeing  now?" 

"On  over  the  moor  and  down  by  the  Kelpie's 
Pool." 

"Gae  on  then.     I'll  watch  for  ye  coming  back." 

He  went  on.  Something  strange  had  him,  draw 
ing  him.  He  came  out  from  the  band  of  trees  upon 
the  swelling  open  moor,  bare  and  brown  save  where 
the  snow  laced  it.  Gold  filtered  over  it ;  a  pale  sky 
arched  above;  it  was  wide,  still,  and  awful — a 
desert.  He  saw  the  light  run  down  and  glint  upon 
the  pool.  Searchers  had  ridden  across  this  moor 
also,  he  had  been  told.  He  went  down  at  once  to 
the  pool  and  stood  by  the  kelpie  willow.  He  was 
not  thinking,  he  was  not  keenly  feeling.  He  seemed 
to  stand  in  open,  endless,  formless  space,  and  in 
unfenced  time.  A  clump  of  dry  reeds  rose  by  his 
knee,  and  upon  the  other  side  of  these  he  noticed 
that  a  stone  had  been  lifted  from  its  bed.  He 
stooped,  and  in  the  reeds  he  found  an  inch-long 
fragment  of  ribbon — of  a  snood. 

He  stepped  back  from  the  willow.  He  took  off 
and  dropped  upon  the  moor  hat  and  riding-coat 

165 


FOES 

and  boots,  inner  coat  and  waistcoat.  Then  he  en 
tered  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  He  searched  it,  measure  by 
measure,  and  at  last  he  found  the  body  of  Elspeth. 
He  drew  it  up;  he  loosened  and  let  fall  the  stone 
tied  in  the  plaid  that  was  wrapped  around  it;  he 
bore  the  form  out  of  the  pool  and  laid  it  upon  the 
bank  beyond  the  willow.  The  sunlight  showed  the 
whole,  the  face  and  figure.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie, 
kneeling  beside  it,  put  back  the  long  drowned 
hair  and  saw,  pinned  upon  the  bosom  of  the  gown, 
the  folded  letter,  wrapped  twice  in  thicker  paper. 
He  took  it  from  her  and  opened  it.  The  writing 
was  yet  legible. 

I  hope  that  I  shall  not  be  found.  If  I  am,  let  this  answer 
for  me.  I  was  unhappy,  more  unhappy  than  you  can  think. 
Let  no  one  be  blamed.  It  was  one  far  from  here  and  you  will 
not  know  his  name.  Do  not  think  of  me  as  wicked  nor  as  a 
murderess.  The  unhappy  should  have  pardon  and  rest.  Good- 
by  to  all — good-by! 

In  the  upper  corner  was  written,  "For  White 
Farm."  That  was  all. 

Glenfernie  put  this  letter  into  the  bosom  of  his 
shirt.  He  then  got  on  again  the  clothing  he  had 
discarded,  and,  stooping,  put  his  arms  beneath  the 
lifeless  form.  He  lifted  it  and  bore  it  from  the 
Kelpie's  Pool  and  up  the  moor.  He  was  a  man 
much  stronger  than  the  ordinary;  he  carried  it  as 
though  he  felt  no  weight.  The  icy  water  of  the 
pool  upon  him  was  as  nothing,  and  as  he  walked 
his  face  was  still  as  a  stone  face  in  a  desert.  So 
he  came  with  Elspeth's  body  back  to  the  glen,  and 
Mother  Binning  saw  him  coming. 

166 


FOES 

"Hech,  sirs!  Hech,  sirs!  Will  it  hae  been  that 
way — will  it  hae  been  that  way?'* 

He  stopped  for  a  moment.  He  laid  his  burden 
down  upon  the  boards  just  within  the  door  and 
smoothed  back  the  streaming  hair.  "Even  the 
shell  flung  out  by  the  ocean  is  beautiful!" 

"Eh,  man!  Eh,  man!  It's  wae  sometimes  to 
be  a  woman!" 

"Give  me,"  he  said,  "a  plaid,  dry  and  warm, 
to  hap  her  in." 

"Will  ye  na  leave  her  here?  Put  her  in  my  bed 
and  gae  tell  White  Farm!" 

"No,  I  will  carry  her  home." 

Mother  Binning  took  from  a  chest  a  gray  plaid. 
He  lifted  again  the  dead  woman,  and  she  happed  the 
plaid  about  her.  "Ah,  the  lassie — the  lassie!  Come 
to  me,  Glenfernie,  and  I  will  scry  for  you  who  it 
was!" 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  did  not  hear  her. 
He  lifted  the  body,  holding  it  against  his  shoulder 
like  a  child,  and  went  forth.  He  knew  the  path  so 
absolutely,  he  was  so  strong  and  light  of  foot,  that 
he  went  without  difficulty  through  the  glen,  by  the 
loud  crying  water,  by  the  points  of  crag  and  the  curv 
ing  roots  and  the  drifts  of  snow,  by  the  green 
patches  of  moss  and  the  trees  great  and  small.  He 
did  not  hasten  nor  drag,  he  did  not  think.  He  went 
like  a  bronze  Talus,  made  simply  to  find,  to  carry 
home. 

Known  feature  after  known  feature  of  the  place 
rose  before  him,  passed  him,  fell  away.  Here  was 
the  arm  of  the  glen,  and  here  was  the  pebbled  cape 
and  the  thorn-tree.  The  winter  water  swirled 

167 


FOES 

around  it,  sang  of  cold  and  a  hateful  power.  Here 
was  the  mouth  of  the  glen.  Here  were  the  fields 
which  had  been  green  and  then  golden  with  ripe  corn. 
Here  were  the  White  Farm  roof  and  chimneys  and 
windows,  and  blue  smoke  from  the  chimney  going 
straight  up  like  a  wraith  to  meet  blue  sky.  Before 
him  was  the  open  door. 

He  had  thought  of  there  being  only  Jenny  and  the 
two  servant  lasses.  But  in  the  time  he  had  been 
gone  there  had  regathered  to  White  Farm,  for  learn 
ing  each  from  each,  for  consultation,  for  mere  rest 
and  food,  a  number  of  the  searchers.  Jarvis  Barrow 
had  returned  from  the  northward-stretching  moor, 
Thomas  and  Willy  from  the  southerly  fields.  Men 
who  had  begun  to  drag  deep  places  in  the  stream 
were  here  for  some  provision.  A  handful  of  women, 
hooded  and  wrapped,  had  come  from  neighboring 
farms  or  from  the  village.  Among  them  talked  Mrs. 
Macmurdo,  who  kept  the  shop,  and  the  hostess  of 
the  Jardine  Arms.  And  there  was  here  Jock  Bin 
ning,  who,  for  all  his  lameness  and  his  crutches, 
could  go  where  he  wished.  .  .  .  But  it  was  Gilian, 
crossing  upon  the  stepping-stones,  who  saw  Glen- 
fernie  coming  by  the  stream  with  the  covered  form 
in  his  arms.  She  met  him;  they  went  up  the 
bank  to  the  house  together.  She  had  uttered  one 
cry,  but  no  more. 

"The  Kelpie's  Pool,"  he  had  answered. 

Jarvis  Barrow  came  out  of  the  door.  "Eh!  God 
help  us!" 

They  laid  the  form  upon  a  bed.  All  the  houseful 
crowded  about.  There  was  no  helping  that,  and 
as  little  might  be  helped  Jenny's  lamentations  and 

168 


FOES 

the  ejaculations  of  others.  It  was  White  Farm  him 
self  who  took  away  the  plaid.  It  lay  there  before 
them  all,  the  drowned  form.  The  face  was  very 
quiet,  strangely  like  Elspeth  again,  the  Elspeth  of  the 
springtime.  All  looked,  all  saw. 

"Gude  guide  us!"  cried  Mrs.  Macmurdo.  "And 
I  wadna  be  some  at  the  Judgment  Day  when  come 
up  the  beguiled,  self-drownit  lassies!" 

Jock  Binning's  voice  rose  from  out  the  craning 
group.  "Aye,  and  I  ken — and  I  ken  wha  was  the 
man!" 

White  Farm  turned  upon  him.  He  towered,  the 
old  man.  A  winter  wrath  and  grief,  an  icy,  scintil- 
lant,  arctic  passion,  marked  two  there,  the  laird  of 
Glenfernie  and  the  elder  of  the  kirk.  Gilian's  grief 
stood  head-high  with  theirs,  but  their  anger,  the  old 
man's  disdaining  and  the  young  man's  jealousy,  was 
far  from  her.  In  Jarvis  Barrow's  hand  was  the 
paper,  taken  from  Elspeth,  given  him  by  Glenfernie. 
He  turned  upon  the  cripple.  "Wha,  then?  Wha, 
then?  Speak  out!" 

He  had  that  power  of  command  that  forced  an 
answer.  Jock  Binning,  crutched  and  with  an  elfish 
face  and  figure  and  voice,  had  pulled  down  upon 
himself  the  office  of  revelator.  The  group  swayed 
a  little  from  him  and  he  was  left  facing  White  Farm 
and  the  laird  of  Glenfernie.  He  had  a  wailing, 
chanting,  elvish  manner  of  speech.  Out  streamed 
this  voice: 

"'Twere  the  last  of  June,  twa- three  days  after 

the  laird  rode  to  Edinburgh,  and  she  brought  my 

mither  a  giftie  of  plums  and  sat  doon  for  a  crack 

with   her.     By   he   came   and  stood   and   talked, 

12  169 


FOES 

Syne  the  clouds  thickened  and  the  thunder  growlit, 
and  he  wad  walk  with  her  hame  through  the  glen — " 

"Whawad?    Wha?" 

"  Captain  Ian  Rullock." 

"Ian  Rullockr 

"Aye,  Glenfernie!  And  after  that  they  never 
came  to  my  mither's  again.  But  I  marked  them 
aft  when  they  didna  mark  me,  in  the  glen.  Aye,  and 
I  marked  them  ance  in  the  little  glen,  and  there  they 
were  lovers  surely — gin  kisses  and  clasped  arms  mak 
lovers!  She  wad  come  by  herself  to  their  trysting, 
and  he  wad  come  over  the  muir  and  down  the  crag- 
side.  It  was  na  my  business  and  I  never  thocht 
to  tell.  But  eh!  all  ill  will  out,  says  my  mither!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HPHE  early  sunlight  fell  soft  and  fine  upon  the 
•*•  river  Seine  and  the  quays  and  buildings  of 
Paris.  The  movement  and  buzz  of  people  had,  in 
the  brightness,  something  of  the  small  ecstasy  of 
bees  emerging  from  the  hive  with  the  winter  pall  just 
slipped.  Distant  bells  were  ringing,  hope  enticed 
the  grimmest  poverty.  Much,  after  all,  might  be 
tal^en  good-naturedly ! 

A  great,  ornate  coach,  belonging  to  a  person  of 
quality,  crossed  the  Seine  from  the  south  to  the 
north  bank.  Three  gentlemen,  seated  within,  ob 
served  each  in  his  own  fashion  the  soft,  shining 
day.  One  was  Scots,  one  was  English,  and  the  owner 
of  the  coach,  a  Frenchman.  The  first  was  Ian  Rul- 
lock. 

"Good  weather  for  your  crossing,  monsieur!"  re 
marked  the  person  of  quality.  He  was  so  markedly 
of  position  that  the  two  men  whom  he  had  graciously 
offered  to  bring  a  mile  upon  their  way,  and  who  also 
were  younger  men,  answered  with  deference  and  fol 
lowed  in  their  speech  only  the  lines  indicated. 

"It  promises  fair,  sir,"  said  Ian.  "In  three  days 
Dunkirk,  then  smooth  seas!  Good  omens  every 
where!" 

"You  do  not  voyage  under  your  own  name?" 

171 


FOES 

"After  to-morrow,  sir,  I  am  Robert  Bonshaw,  a 
Scots  physician." 

"Ah,  well,  good  fortune  to  you,  and  to  the  exalted 
person  you  serve!" 

The  coach,  cumbrous  and  stately,  drawn  by  four 
white  horses,  left  the  bridge  and  came  under  old 
palace  walls,  and  thence  by  narrow  streets  advanced 
toward  the  great  house  of  its  owner.  Outside  was 
the  numerous  throng,  the  scattering  to  this  side  and 
that  of  the  imperiled  foot  travelers.  The  coach 
stopped. 

"Here  is  the  street  you  would  reach!"  said  the 
helpful  person  of  quality. 

A  footman  held  open  the  door;  the  Scot  and  the 
Englishman  gave  proper  expression  of  gratitude  to 
their  benefactor,  descended  to  earth,  turned  again 
to  bow  low,  and  waited  bareheaded  till  the  great 
machine  was  once  more  in  motion  and  monseigneur's 
wig,  countenance,  and  velvet  coat  grew  things  of 
the  past.  Then  the  two  turned  into  a  still  and 
narrow  street  overhung  by  high,  ancient  structures 
and  roofed  with  April  sky. 

The  one  was  going  from  Paris,  the  other  staying. 
Both  were  links  in  a  long  chain  of  political  con 
spiring.  They  walked  now  down  the  street  that  was 
dark  and  old,  underfoot  old  mire  and  mica-like  glis 
tening  of  fresher  rain.  The  Englishman  spoke: 

"Have  you  any  news  from  home?" 

"None.  None  for  a  long  while.  I  had  it  con 
veyed  to  my  kindred  and  to  an  old  friend  that  I 
had  disappeared  from  Paris — gone  eastward,  Heaven 
knew  where — probably  Crim  Tartary!  So  my  own 
world  at  least,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  will  be  off 

172 


FOES 

the  scent.  That  was  in  the  winter.  I  have  really 
heard  nothing  for  months.  .  .  .  When  the  dawn 
comes  up  and  we  are  all  rich  and  famed  and  gay,  my- 
lorded  from  John  o'  Groat's  House  to  Land's  End — • 
then,  Warburton,  then — " 

"Then?" 

"Then  we'll  be  good!"  Ian  laughed.  "Don't  you 
want,  sometimes,  to  be  good,  Warburton?  Wise — • 
and  simple.  Doesn't  it  rise  before  you  in  the  night 
with  a  most  unearthly  beauty?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  am  so-so  good!"  answered  the 
other.  "So-so  bad,  so-so  good.  What  puts  you 
in  this  strain?" 

"Tell  me  and  I  will  tell  you!  And  now  I'm  going 
to  Scotland,  into  the  Highlands,  to  paint  a  prince 
who,  when  he's  king,  will,  no  manner  of  doubt, 
wear  the  tartan  and  make  every  thane  of  Glamis 
thane  of  Cawdor  likewise ! .  .  .  One  half  the  creature's 
body  is  an  old,  childish  loyalty,  and  the  other  half's 
ambition.  The  creature's  myself.  There  are  also 
bars  and  circles  and  splashes  of  various  colors,  dark 
and  bright.  Sometimes  it  dreams  of  wings — wings 
of  an  archangel,  no  less,  Warburton!  The  next 
moment  there  seems  to  be  an  impotency  to  produce 
even  beetle  wings!  .  .  .  What  a  weathercock  and 
variorum  I  am,  thou  art,  he  is!" 

"We're  no  worse  than  other  men,"  said  Warbur 
ton,  comfortably.  "We're  all  pretty  ignorant,  I 
take  it!" 

They  came  to  a  building,  old  and  not  without  some 
lingering  of  strength  and  grace.  It  stood  in  the 
angle  of  two  streets  and  received  sunshine  and  light 
as  well  as  cross-tides  of  sound.  The  Scot  and  the; 


FOES 

Englishman  both  lodged  here,  above  a  harness- 
maker  and  a  worker  in  fine  woods.  They  passed 
into  the  court  and  to  a  stair  that  once  had  known 
a  constant,  worldly-rich  traffic  up  and  down.  Now 
it  was  still  and  twilight,  after  the  streets.  Both 
men  had  affairs  to  put  in  order,  business  on  hand. 
They  moved  now  abstractedly,  and  when  Warbur- 
ton  reached,  upon  the  first  landing,  the  door  of  his 
rooms,  he  turned  aside  from  Ian  with  only  a  negli 
gent,  "We'll  sup  together  and  say  last  things  then." 

The  Scot  went  on  alone  to  the  next  landing  and 
his  own  room.  These  were  not  his  usual  lodgings  in 
Paris.  Agent  now  of  high  Jacobite  interests,  shuttle 
sent  from  conspirers  in  France  to  chiefs  in  Scotland, 
on  the  eve  of  a  departure  in  disguise,  he  had  broken 
old  nest  and  old  relations,  and  was  now  as  a  stranger 
in  a  city  that  he  knew  well,  and  where  by  not  a  few 
he  was  known.  The  room  that  he  turned  into  had 
little  sign  of  old,  well-liked  occupancy;  the  servant 
who  at  his  call  entered  from  a  smaller  chamber  was 
not  the  man  to  whom  he  was  used,  but  a  Highlander 
sent  him  by  a  Gordon  then  in  Paris. 

"I  am  back,  Donal!"  said  Ian,  and  threw  himself 
into  a  chair  by  the  table.  "Come,  give  an  account 
of  your  errands!" 

Donal,  middle-aged,  faithful,  dour  and  sagacious, 
and  years  away  from  loch  and  mountain,  gave  ac 
count.  Horses,  weapons,  clothing,  all  correct  for 
Dr.  Robert  Bonshaw  and  his  servant,  riding  under 
high  protection  from  Paris  to  Dunkirk,  where  a  well- 
captained  merchant- vessel  stayed  for  them  in  port. 
Ian  nodded  approval. 

"I'm  indebted,  Donal,  to  my  cousin  Gordon!" 


FOES 

Donal  let  a  smile  come  to  within  a  league  of  the 
surface.  "Her  ainself  has  a  wish  to  hear  the  eagle 
scream  over  Ben  Nevis!" 

Rullock's  hand  moved  over  a  paper,  checking  a 
row  of  figures.  "Did  you  manage  to  get  into  my 
old  lodging?" 

"Aye.  None  there.  All  dusty  and  bare.  But 
the  woman  who  had  the  key  gave  me — since  I  said 
I  might  make  a  guess  where  to  find  you,  sir — these 
letters.  They  came,  she  said,  two  weeks  ago." 
Donal  laid  them  upon  the  table. 

"Ah!"  said  Ian,  "they  must  have  gotten  through 
before  I  shut  off  the  old  passageway."  He  took 
them  in  his  hand.  "There's  nothing  more  now, 
Donal.  Go  out  for  your  dinner." 

The  man  went.  Ian  added  another  column  of 
figures,  then  took  the  letters  and  with  them  moved 
to  a  window  through  which  streamed  the  sun  of 
France.  The  floor  was  patched  with  gold;  there 
was  warmth  as  well  as  light .  He  pushed  a  chair 
into  it,  sat  down,  and  opened  first  the  packet  that 
he  knew  had  come  from  his  uncle.  He  broke  the 
seal  and  read  two  pages  of  Mr.  Touris  in  a  mood  of 
anger.  There  were  rumors — .  True  it  was  that 
Ian  had  now  his  own  fortune,  had  it  at  least 
until  he  lost  it  and  his  life  together  in  some  mad, 
unlawful  business!  But  let  him  not  look  longer  to 
be  heir  of  Archibald  Touris!  Withdraw  at  once 
from  ill  company,  political  or  other,  and  return  to 
Scotland,  or  at  least  to  England,  or  take  the  con 
sequences!  The  letter  bore  date  the  first  week  of 
December.  It  had  been  long  in  passing  from  hand 
to  hand  in  a  troubled,  warring  world.  Ian  Rullock, 


FOES 

fathoms  deep  in  the  present  business,  held  in  a 
web  made  by  many  lines  of  force,  both  thick  and 
thin,  refolded  the  paper  and  made  to  put  it  into 
his  pocketbook,  then  bethinking  himself,  tore  it  in 
stead  into  small  pieces  and,  rising,  dropped  these  into 
a  brazier  where  burned  a  little  charcoal.  He  v  ould 
carry  nothing  with  his  proper  name  upon  it.  Coming 
back  to  the  chair  in  the  sunshine,  he  sat  for  a  mo 
ment  with  his  eyes  upon  a  gray  huddle  of  roofs 
visible  through  the  window.  Then  he  broke  the 
seal  and  unfolded  the  letter  superscribed  in  Alex 
ander's  strong  writing. 

There  were  hardly  six  lines.  And  they  did  not 
tell  of  how  discovery  had  been  made,  nor  why,  nor 
when.  They  said  nothing  of  death  nor  life — no 
word  of  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  They  carried,  tersely, 
a  direct  challenge,  the  ground  Ian  Rullock's  con 
ception  of  friendship,  a  conception  tallying  nicely 
with  Alexander  Jardine's  idea  of  a  mortal  enmity. 
Such  a  fishing-town,  known  of  both,  back  of  such 
a  sea  beach  in  Holland — such  a  tavern  in  this 
place.  Meet  there — wait  there,  the  one  who  should 
reach  it  first  for  the  other,  and — to  give  all 
possible  ground  to  delays  of  letters,  travel,  ar 
rangements  generally — in  so  late  a  month  as  April. 
"Find  me  there,  or  await  me  there,  my  one 
time  friend,  henceforth  my  foe!  I — or  Justice 
herself  above  me  —  would  teach  you  certain 
things!" 

The  cartel  bore  date  the  ist  of  January — later 
by  a  month  than  the  Black  Hill  letter.  It  dropped 
from  lan's  hand;  he  sat  with  blankness  of  mind  in 
the  sunlight.  Presently  he  shivered  slightly.  He 

176 


FOES 

leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  forehead  in 
his  hands  and  sat  still.  Alexander!  He  felt  no 
hot  straining  toward  meeting,  toward  fighting, 
Alexander.  Perversely  enough,  after  a  year  of  im 
patient,  contemptuous  thought  in  that  direction, 
he  had  lately  felt  liking  and  an  ancient  strong 
respect  returning  like  a  tide  that  was  due.  And 
he  could  not  meet  Alexander  in  April — that  was 
impossible !  No  private  affair  could  be  attended  to 
now. 

.  .  .  Elspeth,  of  whom  the  letter  carried  no  word, 
Elspeth  from  whom  he  had  not  heard  since  in  August 
he  left  that  countryside,  Elspeth  who  had  agreed 
with  him  that  love  of  man  and  woman  was  nobody's 
business  but  their  own,  Elspeth  who,  when  he  would 
go,  had  let  him  go  with  a  fine  pale  refusal  to  deal  in 
women's  tears  and  talk  of  injury,  who  had  said,  in 
deed,  that  she  did  not  repent,  much  bliss  being  worth 
§ome  bale — Elspeth  whom  he  could  not  be  sure 
that  he  would  see  again,  but  whom  at  times  before 
his  eyes  at  night  he  saw.  .  .  .  Immediately  upon  his 
leaving  Black  Hill  she  had  broken  with  Glenfernie. 
She  was  clear  of  him — the  laird  could  reproach  her 
with  nothing! 

What  had  happened?  He  had  told  her  how,  at 
need,  a  letter  might  be  sent.  But  one  had  never 
come.  He  himself  had  never  written.  Writing  was 
set  in  a  prickly  ring  of  difficulties  and  dangers. 
What  had  happened?  Strong,  secret  inclination 
toward  finding  least  painful  things  for  himself 
brought  his  conclusion.  Sitting  there  in  the  sun 
shine,  his  will  deceiving  him,  he  determined  that  it 
was  simply  that  Elspeth  had  at  last  told  Glenfernie 

177  - 


FOES 

that  she  could  not  love  him  because  she  loved 
another.  Probably — persistence  being  markedly  a 
trait  of  Old  Steadfast 's — he  had  been  after  her  once 
and  again,  and  she  had  turned  upon  him  and  said 
much  more  than  in  prudence  she  should  have  said! 
So  Alexander  would  have  made  his  discovery  and 
might,  if  he  pleased,  image  other  trysts  than  his  own 
in  the  glen!  Certainly  he  had  done  this,  and  then 
sat  down  and  penned  his  challenge! 

Elspeth!  He  was  unshakably  conscious  that 
Glenfernie  would  tell  none  what  Elspeth  might 
have  been  provoked  into  giving  away.  Old  Stead 
fast,  there  was  no  denying,  had  that  knightliness. 
Three  now  knew  —  no  more  than  three.  If, 
through  some  mischance,  there  had  been  wider 
discovery,  she  would  have  written!  The  Black 
Hill  letter,  too,  would  have  had  somewhat  there 
to  say. 

Then,  behind  the  challenge,  stood  old  and  new  re 
lations  between  Ian  Rullock  and  Alexander  Jardine ! 
It  was  what  Glenfernie  might  choose  to  term  the 
betrayal  of  friendship — a  deep  scarification  of  Old 
Steadfast's  pride,  a  severing  cut  given  to  his  too 
imperial  confidence,  poison  dropped  into  the  wells, 
of  domination,  "No!"  said  to  too  much  happiness, 
to  any  surpassing  of  him,  Ian,  in  happiness,  "No!" 
to  so  much  reigning! 

Ian  shook  himself,  thrust  away  the  doubtful 
glimmer  of  a  smile.  That  way  really  did  lie 
hell 

He  came  back  to  a  larger  if  a  much  .perplexed 
self.  He  could  not  meet  Glenfernie  on  that  sea 
beach,  fight  him  there.  He  did  not  desire  to  kill 

178 


FOES 

Old  Steadfast,  though,  as  the  world  went,  pleasure 
was  to  be  had  in  now  and  then  giving  superiority 
pain.  Face  to  face  upon  those  sands,  some  blood 
shed  and  honor  satisfied,  Alexander  would  be  reason 
able — being  by  nature  reasonable!  Ian  shook  him 
self. 

4 'Now  he  draws  me  like  a  lodestone,  and  now  I 
feel  Lucifer  to  his  Michael!  What  old,  past  moun 
tain  of  friendship  and  enmity  has  come  around, 
full  wheel?" 

But  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  to  that  sea 
strand  in  Holland. 

Elspeth!  He  wondered  what  she  was  doing  this 
April  day.  Perhaps  she  walked  in  the  glen.  It  was 
colder  there  than  here,  but  yet  the  trees  would  be 
budding.  He  saw  her  face  again,  and  all  its  ability 
to  show  subtle  terror  and  subtle  joy,  and  the  glanc 
ing  and  the  running  of  the  stream  between.  Elspeth. 
.  .  .  He  loved  her  again  as  he  sat  there,  somewhat 
bowed  together  in  the  sunlight,  Alexander's  challenge 
upon  the  floor  by  his  foot.  There  came  creeping  to 
him  an  odd  feeling  of  long  ago  having  loved  her — 
long  ago  and  more  than  once,  many  times  more  than 
once.  Name  and  place  alone  flickered.  There 
might  be  something  in  Old  Steadfast 's  contention 
that  one  lived  of  old  time  and  all  time,  only  there 
came  breaking  in  dozing  and  absent-mindedness! 
Elspeth — 

He  saw  her  standing  by  him,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  she  had  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  she  looked 
as  she  had  looked  that  day  of  the  thunder-storm 
and  the  hour  in  the  cave  behind  the  veil  of  rain. 
Without  warning  there  welled  into  his  mind  broken 

179 


FOES 

lines  from  an  old  tale  in  verse  of  which  he  was 
fond: 

"Me  dreamed  al  this  night,  pardie, 
An  elf-queen  shall  my  leman  be  ...  ..    , 

An  elf-queen  wil  I  have,  I-wis, 
For  in  this  world  no  woman  is 

Worthy  to  be  my  mate  .  .  . 
Al  other  women  I  forsake 
And  to  an  elf -queen  I  me  take 

By  dale  and  eke  by  down." 

Syllable  and  tone  died.  With  his  hand  he  brushed 
from  his  eyes  the  vision  that  he  knew  to  be  nothing 
but  a  heightened  memory.  Might,  indeed,  all 
women  be  one  woman,  one  woman  be  all  women, 
all  forms  one  form,  all  times  one  time,  like  event 
fall  softly,  imperceptibly,  upon  like  event  until  there 
was  thickness,  until  there  was  made  a  form  of  all 
recurrent,  contributory  forms?  Events,  tendencies, 
lives — unimaginable  continuities!  Repetitions  and 
repetitions  and  repetitions — and  no  one  able  to 
leave  the  trodden  road  that  ever  returned  upon  it 
self — no  one  able  to  take  one  step  from  the  circle 
into  a  new  dimension  and  thence  see  the  form 
below.  .  .  . 

Ian  put  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  shook  himself, 
started  up  and  stood  at  the  window.  Sky,  and  roofs 
on  roofs,  and  in  the  street  below  toy  figures,  pedes 
trians.  "Come  back — come  back  to  breathable  air! 
Now  what's  to  be  done — what's  to  be  done?"  After 
some  moments  he  turned  and  picked  up  the  letter 
upon  the  floor  and  read  it  twice.  In  memory  and 
in  imagination  he  could  see  the  fishing-town,  the 
inn  there,  the  dunes,  the  ocean  beach  fretted  by  the 

180 


FOES 

long,  incoming  wave.  Perhaps  and  most  probably, 
this  very  bright  afternoon,  the  laird  of  Glenfernie 
waited  for  him  there,  pacing  the  sands,  perhaps, 
watching  the  comers  to  the  inn  door.  .  .  .  Well,  he 
must  watch  in  vain.  Ian  Rullock  would  one  day 
give  him  satisfaction,  but  certainly  not  now.  Vast 
affairs  might  not  be  daffed  aside  for  the  laird  of 
Glenfernie's  convenience!  Ian  stood  staring  out  of 
window  at  those  huddled  roofs,  the  challenge  still 
in  his  hand.  Then,  slowly,  he  tore  the  paper  to 
pieces  and  committed  it  to  the  brazier  where  was 
already  consumed  Black  Hill's  communication. 

That  evening  he  supped  with  War  burton,  and  the 
next  morning  saw  him  and  Donal  riding  forth  from 
Paris,  by  St. -Denis,  on  toward  Dunkirk.  From  this 
place,  four  days  later,  sailed  the  brig  Cock  of  ike 
North,  destination  the  Beauly  Firth.  Dr.  Robert 
Bonshaw  and  his  man  experienced,  despite  the  pre 
diction  of  the  Frenchman  of  quality,  a  rough  and 
long  voyage.  But  the  Cock  of  ike  North  weathered 
tumultuous  sea  and  wind  and  came,  in  the  northern 
spring,  to  anchor  in  a  great  picture  of  firth  and 
green  shore  and  dark,  piled  mountains.  Dr.  Robert 
Bonshaw  and  his  man,  going  ashore  and  into  Inver 
ness,  found  hospitality  there  in  the  house  of  a  certain 
merchant.  Thence,  after  a  day  or  so,  he  traveled 
to  the  castle  of  a  Highland  chief  of  commanding 
port.  Here  occurred  a  gathering;  here  letters  and 
asseverations  brought  from  France  were  read,  listened 
to,  weighed  or  taken  without  much  weighing,  so  did 
the  Highland  desire  run  one  way.  An  old  net  added 
to  itself  another  mesh. 

Dr.  Robert  Bonshaw,  a  very  fit,  invigorating 

181 


FOES 

agent,  traveled  far  and  near  through  the  Highlands 
this  May,  this  June,  this  July.  It  was  to  him  an 
interesting,  difficult,  intensely  occupied  time;  he 
was  far  from  Lowland  Scotland  and  any  echoes 
therefrom,  saving  always  political  echoes.  He  had 
no  leisure  for  his  own  affairs,  saving  always  that 
background  consideration  that,  if  the  Stewarts  real 
ly  got  back  the  crown,  Ian  Rullock  was  on  the  road 
to  power  and  wealth.  This  consideration  was  not 
articulate,  but  diffused.  It  interfered  not  at  all 
with  the  foreground  activities  and  hard  planning — • 
no  more  than  did  the  fine  Highland  air.  It  only 
spurred  him  as  did  the  winy  air.  The  time  and 
place  were  electric;  he  worked  hard,  many  hours 
on  end,  and  when  he  sought  his  bed  he  dropped  at 
once  to  needed  sleep.  From  morn  till  late  at 
night,  whether  in  castle  or  house  or  journeying 
from  clan  to  clan,  he  was  always  in  company. 
There  was  no  time  for  old  thoughts,  memories,  sur 
mises.  That  was  one  world  and  he  was  now  in 
another. 

Upon  the  eleventh  day  of  May,  the  year  1745,  was 
fought  in  Flanders  the  battle  of  Fontenoy.  The 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  Konigsegge  the  Austrian, 
and  the  Dutch  Prince  of  Waldeck  had  the  handling 
of  something  under  fifty  thousand  English.  Mar 
shal  Saxe  with  Louis  XV  at  his  side  wielded  a  some 
what  larger  number  of  French.  The  English  and 
their  allies  were  beaten.  French  spirits  rode  on  high, 
French  intentions  widened. 

The  Stewart  interest  felt  the  blood  bound  in  its 
veins.  The  bulk  of  the  British  army  was  on  the 
Continent  and  shaken  by  Fontenoy;  King  George 

182 


FOES 

himself  tarried  in  Hanover.  Now  was  the  time — 
now  was  the  time  for  the  heir  of  all  the  Stewarts 
to  put  his  fortune  to  the  touch — to  sail  from  France, 
to  land  in  Scotland,  to  raise  his  banner  and  draw 
his  sword  and  gather  Highland  chief  and  Lowland 
Jacobite,  the  while  in  England  rose  for  him  and  his 
father  English  Jacobites  and  soon,  be  sure,  all  Eng 
lish  Tories!  France  would  send  gold  and  artillery 
and  men  to  her  ancient  ally,  Scotland.  Up  at  last 
with  the  white  Stewart  banner!  reconquer  for  the 
old  line  and  all  it  meant  to  its  adherents  the  two 
kingdoms!  In  the  last  week  of  July  Prince  Charles 
Edward,  somewhat  strangely  and  meagerly  at 
tended,  landed  at  Loch  Sunart  in  the  Highlands. 
There  he  was  joined  by  Camerons,  Macdonalds,  and 
Stewarts,  and  thence  he  moved,  with  an  ever- 
increasing  Highland  tail,  to  Perth.  A  bold  stream 
joined  him  here — northern  nobles  of  power,  with 
their  men.  He  might  now  have  an  army  of  two 
thousand.  Sir  John  Cope,  sent  to  oppose  him  with 
what  British  troops  there  were  in  Scotland,  allowed 
himself  to  be  circumvented.  The  Prince,  having 
proclaimed  his  father,  still  at  Rome,  James  III, 
King  of  Great  Britain,  and  produced  his  own  com 
mission  as  Regent,  marched  from  Perth  to  Edin 
burgh.  The  city  capitulated  and  Charles  Edward 
was  presently  installed  in  Holyrood,  titularly  at 
home  in  his  father's  kingdom,  in  his  ancient 
palace,  among  his  loyal  subjects,  but  actually  with 
far  the  major  moiety  of  that  kingdom  yet  to 
gain. 

The  gracious  act  of  rewarding  must  begin.     Claim 
on  royal  gratitude  is  ever  a  multitudinous  thing !     In 


FOES 

the  general  manifoldness,  out  of  the  by  no  means 
yet  huge  store  of  honey  Ian  Rullock,  for  mere  first 
rung  of  his  fortune's  ladder,  received  the  personally 
given  thanks  of  his  Prince  and  a  captaincy  in  the 
none  too  rapidly  growing  army. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

'T'HE  castle,  defiant,  untakable  save  by  long  siege 
A  and  famine,  held  for  King  George  by  a  garri 
son  of  a  few  hundreds,  spread  itself  like  a  rock  lion 
in  a  high-lifted  rock  lair.  Bands  of  Highlanders 
watched  its  gates  and  accesses,  guarding  against 
Hanoverian  sallies.  From  the  castle  down  stretched 
Edinburgh,  heaped  upon  its  long,  spinelike  hill,  to 
the  palace  of  Holyrood,  and  all  its  tall  houses,  tall 
and  dark,  and  all  its  wynds  and  closes,  and  all  its. 
strident  voices,  and  all  its  moving  folk,  seemed  to 
have  in  mind  that  palace  and  the  banner  before  it. 
The  note  of  the  having  rang  jubilation  in  all  its 
degrees,  or  with  a  lower  and  a  muffled  sound  distaste 
and  fear,  or  it  aimed  at  a  middle  strain  neither  high 
nor  low,  a  golden  mean  to  be  kept  until  there  might 
be  seen  what  motif,  after  all,  was  going  to  prevail! 
It  would  never  do,  thought  some,  to  be  at  this  junct 
ure  too  clamorous  either  way.  But  to  the  unpon- 
dering  ear  the  jubilation  carried  it,  as  to  the  eye 
tartans  and  white  cockades  made  color,  made  high 
light,  splashed  and  starred  and  redeemed  the  gray 
town.  There  was  one  thing  that  could  not  but 
appeal,  A  Scots  royal  line  had  come  into  its  home 
nest  at  Holyrood.  Not  for  many  and  many  and 
many  a  year  had  such  a  thing  as  that  happened! 
13  185 


FOES 

If  matters  went  in  a  certain  way  Edinburgh  might 
regain  ancient  pomp  and  circumstance.  That  was 
a  consideration  that  every  hour  arranged  a  new 
plea  in  the  citizen  heart. 

Excitement,  restless  movement,  tendency  to  come 
together  in  a  crowd,  were  general,  as  were  ejacula 
tion,  nervous  laughter,  declamation.  The  roll  of 
drum,  call  of  trumpet,  skirl  of  pipes,  did  not  lack. 
Charles  Edward's  army  encamped  itself  at  Dudding- 
ston  a  little  to  the  east  of  the  city.  But  its  units 
came  in  numbers  into  the  town.  The  warlike  hue 
diffused  itself.  Horsemen  were  frequent,  and  a 
continual  entering  of  new  adherents,  men  in  small 
or  large  clusters,  marching  in  from  the  country, 
asking  the  way  to  the  Prince.  For  all  the  buzzing 
and  thronging,  great  order  prevailed.  Women  sat 
or  stood  at  windows,  or  passed  in  and  out  of  dark 
wynds,  or,  escorted,  picked  their  way  at  street 
crossings.  Now  and  then  went  by  a  sedan-chair. 
Many  women  showed  in  their  faces  a  truly  religious 
fervor,  a  passionate  Jacobite  loyalty,  lighting  like 
a  flame.  Many  sewed  white  cockades.  All  Scot 
land,  all  England,  would  surely  presently  want 
these!  Men  of  all  ranks,  committed  to  the  great 
venture,  moved  with  a  determined  gaiety  and  6lan. 
"This  is  the  stage,  we  are  the  actors;  the  piece  is 
a  great  piece,  the  world  looks  on!"  The  town  of 
Edinburgh  did  present  a  grandiose  setting.  Sus 
pense,  the  die  yet  covered,  the  greatness  of  the  risk, 
gave,  too,  its  glamour  of  height  and  stateliness.  All 
these  men  might  see,  in  some  bad  moment  at  night, 
not  only  possible  battle  death — that  was  in  the 
counting — but,  should  the  great  enterprise  fail, 

186 


FOES 

scaffolds  and  hangmen.  Many  who  went  up  and 
down  were  merely  thoughtless,  ignorant,  reckless,  or 
held  in  a  vanity  of  good  fortune,  yet  to  the  eye  of 
history  all  might  come  into  the  sweep  of  great 
drama.  Place  and  time  rang  and  were  tense.  Flare 
and  sonorousness  and  a  deep  vibration  of  the  old 
massive  passions,  and  through  all  the  outward  air 
a  September  sea  mist  creeping. 

Ian  Rullock,  walking  down  the  High  Street,  ap 
proaching  St.  Giles,  heard  his  name  spoken  from  a 
little  knot  of  well-dressed  citizens.  As  he  turned 
his  head  a  gentleman  detached  himself  from  the 
company.  It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Wotherspoon  the 
advocate,  old  acquaintance  and  adviser  of  Archibald 
Touris,  of  Black  Hill. 

"Captain  Rullock—" 

"Mr.  Wotherspoon,  I  am  glad  to  see  you!" 

Mr.  Wotherspoon,  old  moderate  Whig,  and  the 
Jacobite  officer  walked  together  down  the  clanging 
way.  The  mist  was  making  pallid  garlands  for  the 
tall  houses,  a  trumpet  rang  at  the  foot  of  the  street, 
Macdonald  of  Glengarry  and  fifty  clansmen,  bright 
tartan  and  screaming  pipes,  poured  by. 

"Auld  Reekie  sees  again  a  stirring  time!"  said 
the  lawyer. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  met  you,  sir,"  said  Rullock. 
"I  fancy  that  you  can  tell  me  home  news.  I  have 
heard  none  for  a  long  time." 

"You  have  been,  doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Wother 
spoon,  "too  engaged  with  great,  new- time  things  to 
be  fashed  with  small,  old-time  ones." 

"One  of  our  new-time  aims,"  said  Ian,  "is  to 
give  fresh  room  to  an  old-time  thing.  But  we 

187 


FOES 

won't  let  little  bolts  fly!  I  am  anxious  for  knowl 
edge." 

Mr.  Wotherspoon  seemed  to  ponder  it.  "I  live 
just  here.  Perhaps  you  will  come  up  to  my  rooms, 
out  of  this  Mars*  racket?" 

"In  an  hour's  time  I  must  wait  on  Lord  George 
Murray.  But  I  have  till  then." 

They  entered  a  close,  and  climbed  the  stair  of  a 
tall,  tall  house,  dusky  and  old.  Here,  half-way  up, 
was  the  lawyer's  lair.  He  unlocked  a  door  and  the 
two  came,  through  a  small  vestibule,  into  a  good- 
sized,  comfortable,  well-furnished  room.  Rullock 
glanced  at  the  walls. 

"I  was  here  once  or  twice,  years  ago.  I  remem 
ber  your  books.  What  a  number  you  have!" 

"I  recall,"  said  Mr.  Wotherspoon,  "a  visit  that 
you  paid  me  with  the  now  laird  of  Glenfernie." 

The  window  to  which  they  moved  allowed  a 
glimpse  of  the  colorful  street.  Mr.  Wotherspoon 
closed  it  against  the  invading  noise  and  the  touch 
of  chill  in  the  misty  air.  He  then  pushed  two 
chairs  to  the  table  and  took  from  a  cupboard  a 
bottle  and  glasses. 

''My  man  is  gadding,  with  eyes  like  saucers — 
like  the  rest  of  us,  like  the  rest  of  us,  Captain  Rul 
lock!"  They  sat  down.  "My  profession,"  said 
the  lawyer,  "can  be  made  to  be  narrow  and  narrow 
ing.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  man  has  an  aptitude 
for  life,  there  is  much  about  life  to  be  learned  with 
a  lawyer's  spy-glass!  A  lawyer  sees  a  variety  of 
happenings  in  a  mixed  world.  He  quite  especially 
learns  how  seldom  black  and  white  are  found  in 
anything  like  a  pure  condition.  A  thousand  thou- 


FOES 

sand  blends.  Be  wise  and  tolerant — or  to  be  wise 
be  tolerant!"  He  pushed  the  bottle. 

Ian  smiled.  "I  take  that,  sir,  to  mean  that  you 
find  God  save  King  James!  not  wholly  harsh  and 
unmusical — " 

"Perhaps  not  wholly  so,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I 
am  Whig  and  Presbyterian  and  I  prefer  God  save 
King  George!  But  I  do  not  look  for  the  world  to 
end,  whether  for  King  George  or  King  James.  I 
did  not  have  in  mind  just  this  public  occasion." 

His  tone  was  dry.  Ian  kept  his  gold-brown  eyes 
upon  him.  "Tell  me  what  you  have  heard  from 
Black  Hill." 

"I  was  there  late  in  May.  Mr.  Touris  learned 
at  that  time  that  you  had  quitted  France." 

"May  I  ask  how  he  learned  it?" 

"The  laird  of  Glenfernie,  who  had  been  in  the 
Low  Countries,  told  him.  Apparently  Glenfernie 
had  acquaintances,  agents,  who  traced  it  out  for  him 
that  you  had  sailed  from  Dunkirk  for  Beauly  Firth , 
under  the  name  of  Robert  Bonshaw." 

"50  he  was  there,  pacing  the  beach,"  thought  Ian. 
He  lifted  his  glass  and  drank  Mr.  Wotherspoon's 
very  good  wine.  That  gentleman  went  on. 

"It  was  surmised  at  Black  Hill  that  you  were 
helping  on  the  event — the  great  event,  perhaps — 
that  has  occurred.  Indeed,  in  July,  Mr.  Touris, 
writing  to  me,  mentioned  that  you  had  been  seen 
beyond  Inverness.  But  the  Highlands  are  deep  and 
you  traveled  rapidly.  Of  course,  when  it  was  known 
that  the  Prince  had  landed,  your  acquaintance  as 
sumed  your  joining  him  and  becoming,  as  you  have  be 
come,  an  officer  in  his  army."  He  made  a  little  bow. 

189 


FOES 

Ian  inclined  his  head  in  return.  "All  at  Black 
Hill  are  well,  I  hope?  My  aunt — " 

"Mrs.  Alison  is  a  saint.  All  earthly  grief,  I 
imagine,  only  quickens  her  homeward  step." 

"What  grief  has  she  had,  sir,  beyond — " 

"Beyond?" 

"I  know  that  my  aunt  will  grieve  for  the  break 
that  has  come  between  my  uncle  and  myself.  I 
have,  too,"  said  Ian,  with  deliberation,  "been  quar 
reled  with  by  an  old  friend.  That  also  may  distress 
her." 

The  lawyer  appeared  to  listen  to  sounds  from  the 
street.  Rising,  he  moved  to  the  window,  then  re 
turned.  "Bonnet  lairds  coming  into  town!  You 
are  referring  now  to  Glenfernie?" 

"Then  he  has  made  it  common  property  that  he 
chose  to  quarrel  with  me?" 

"Oh,  chose  to — "  said  Mr.  Wotherspoon,  reflec 
tively. 

There  was  a  silence.  Ian  set  down  his  wine 
glass,  made  a  movement  of  drawing  together,  of 
determination. 

"I  am  sure  that  there  is  something  of  which  I 
have  not  full  understanding.  You  will  much  oblige 
me  by  attention  to  what  I  now  say,  Mr.  Wother 
spoon.  It  is  possible  that  I  may  ask  you  to  see  that 
its  substance  reaches  Black  Hill."  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  with  his  gold-brown  eyes  met  the 
lawyer's  keen  blue  ones.  "Nothing  now  can  be 
injured  by  telling  you  that  for  a  year  I  have  acted 
under  responsibility  of  having  in  keeping  greater 
fortunes  than  my  own.  That  kind  of  thing,  none 
can  know  better  than  you,  binds  a  man  out  of  his 

190 


FOES 

own  path  and  his  own  choices  into  the  path  and 
choices  of  others.  Secrecy  was  demanded  of  me. 
I  ceased  to  write  home,  and  presently  I  removed 
from  old  lodgings  and  purposely  blurred  indications 
of  where  I  was  or  might  be  found.  In  this  way — 
the  warring,  troubled  time  aiding — it  occurred  that 
there  practically  ceased  all  communication  between 
me  and  those  of  my  blood  and  friendship  whose 
political  thinking  differs  from  mine.  ...  I  begin  to 
see  that  I  know  little  indeed  of  what  may  or  may 
not  have  occurred  in  that  countryside.  Early  in 
April,  however,  there  came  to  my  hand  in  Paris  two 
letters — one  from  my  uncle,  written  before  Christ 
mas,  one  from  Alexander  Jardine,  written  a  month 
later.  My  uncle's  contained  the  information  that, 
lacking  my  immediate  return  to  this  island  and  the 
political  faith  of  his  side  of  the  house,  I  was  no 
longer  his  nephew  and  heir.  The  laird  of  Glen- 
fernie,  upon  an  old  quarrel  into  which  I  need  not 
enter,  chose  to  send  me  a  challenge  simply.  Meet 
him,  on  such  a  sands  in  Holland.  .  .  .  Well,  great 
affairs  have  right  of  way  over  small  ones!  Under 
the  circumstances,  he  might  as  well  have  appointed 
a  plain  in  the  moon!  The  duel  waits.  ...  I  tell 
you  what  I  know  of  home  affairs.  I  shall  be  obliged 
for  any  information  you  may  have  that  I  have  not." 

Mr.  Wotherspoon's  sharp  blue  eyes  seemed  to 
consider  it.  He  drummed  on  the  table.  "I  am  a 
much  older  man  than  you,  Captain  Rullock,  and  an 
old  adviser  of  your  family.  Perhaps  I  may  speak 
without  offense?  That  subject  of  quarrel,  now, 
between  you  and  the  laird  of  Glenfernie — " 

The  other  made  a  movement,  impatient  and  in> 

191 


FOES 

perious.  "It  is  not  likely,  sir,  that  he  divulged 
that!" 

"He?  No!  But  fate — fortune — the  unrolling 
course  of  things—plain  Providence — whatever  you 
choose  to  call  it- — seems  at  times  quite  below  or 
above  that  reticence  which  we  others  so  naturally 
prize  and  exhibit!" 

"You'll  oblige  me,  sir,  by  not  speaking  in  riddles." 

The  irony  dropped  from  Mr.  Wotherspoon's  tone. 
He  faced  the  business  squarely.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  do  not  know  of  the  suicide  of  Elspeth 
Barrow?" 

The  chair  opposite  made  a  grating  sound,  pushed 
violently  back  upon  the  bare,  polished  floor.  Down 
the  street,  through  the  window,  came  the  sound  of 
Cluny  Macpherson's  pipers,  playing  down  from  the 
Lawnmarket.  Rullock  seemed  to  have  thrust  his 
chair  back  into  the  shadow.  Out  of  it  came  presently 
his  voice,  low  and  hoarse: 

"No." 

"They  found  her  on  Christmas  Day — drowned  in 
the  Kelpie's  Pool.  Self-murder — murder  also  of  a 
child  that  would  have  been." 

Again  silence.  The  lawyer  found  that  he  must 
go  through  with  it,  having  come  so  far.  "It  seems 
that  there  is  a  cripple  fellow  of  the  neighborhood 
Who  had  stumbled,  unseen,  upon  your  trysts.  He 
told- — spoke  it  all  out  to  the  crowd  gathered.  There 
was  a  letter,  too,  upon  her  which  gave  a  clue.  But 
she  never  named  you  and  evidently  meant  not  to 
name  you.  .  .  .  Poor  child!  She  may  have  thought 
herself  strong,  and  then  things  have  come  over  her 
wave  on  wave.  Her  grandfather — that  dark  up- 

192 


FOES 

bringing  on  tenets  harsh  and  wrathful — certainty  of 
disgrace.  Pitiful!" 

There  came  a  sound  from  the  chair  pushed  back 
from  the  light.  Mr.  Wotherspoon  measured  the 
table  with  his  fingers. 

"It  seems  that  the  countryside  was  searching  for 
her.  It  was  the  laird  of  Glenfernie  who,  alone  and 
coming  upon  some  trace,  entered  the  Kelpie's  Pool 
and  found  her  there.  They  say  that  he  carried  her, 
dead,  in  his  arms  through  the  glen  to  White  Farm." 

Some  proclamation  or  other  was  being  made  at 
the  Cross  of  Edinburgh.  A  trumpet  blew  and  the 
street  was  filled  with  footsteps. 

"The  laird  of  Glenfernie,"  said  the  lawyer,  "has 
joined,  I  hear,  Sir  John  Cope  at  Dunbar.  It  is  not 
impossible  that  you  may  have  speech  together  from 
opposing  battle-lines."  He  poured  wine.  "My 
bag  of  news  is  empty,  Captain  Rullock." 

Ian  rose  from  his  seat.  His  face  was  gray  and 
twisted,  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  hollow,  low,  and 
dry.  "I  must  go  now  to  Lord  George  Murray.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  news,  Mr.  Wotherspoon.  I —  What 
are  words,  anyhow?  Give  you  good  day,  sir!" 

Mr.  Wotherspoon,  standing  in  his  door,  watched 
him  down  the  stair  and  forth  from  the  house.  "He 
goes  brawly!  How  much  is  night,  and  how  much 
streak  of  dawn?" 

Sir  John  Cope,  King  George's  general  in  Scotland, 
had  but  a  small  army.  It  was  necessary  in  the 
highest  degree  that  Prince  Charles  Edward  should 
meet  and  defeat  this  force  before  it  was  enlarged, 
before  from  England  came  more  and  more  regular 

i93 


FOES 

troops.  ...  A  battle  won  meant  prestige  gained,  the 
coming  over  of  doubting  thousands,  an  echo  into 
England  that  would  bring  the  definite  accession  of 
great  Tory  names.  Cope  and  his  twenty-five  hun 
dred  men,  regulars  and  volunteers,  approaching  Edin 
burgh  from  the  east,  took  position  near  the  village 
of  Prestonpans.  On  the  morning  of  the  2oth  of 
September  out  moved  to  meet  him  the  Prince  and 
Lord  George  Murray,  behind  them  less  than  two 
thousand  men. 

By  afternoon  the  two  forces  confronted  each  the 
other;  but  Cope  had  chosen  well,  the  right  position. 
The  sea  guarded  one  flank,  a  deep  and  wide  field 
ditch  full  of  water  the  other.  In  his  rear  were  stone 
walls,  and  before  him  a  wide  marsh.  The  Jacobite 
strength  halted,  reconnoitered,  must  perforce  at 
last  come  to  a  standstill  before  Cope's  natural 
fortress.  There  was  little  artillery,  no  great  num 
ber  of  horse.  Even  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  High 
land  or  Lowland,  might  draw  back  from  the  thought 
of  trying  to  cross  that  marsh,  of  meeting  the  moat- 
like  ditch  under  Cope's  musket-fire.  Sunset  came 
amid  perturbation,  a  sense  of  check,  impending 
disaster. 

Ian  Rullock,  acting  for  the  moment  as  aide-de 
camp,  had  spent  the  day  on  horseback.  Released  in 
the  late  afternoon,  lodged  in  a  hut  at  the  edge  of 
the  small  camp,  he  used  the  moment's  leisure  to 
climb  a  small  hill  and  at  its  height  to  throw  himself 
down  beside  a  broken  cairn.  He  shut  his  eyes, 
but  after  a  few  moments  opened  them  and  gazed 
upon  the  camp  of  Cope,  covering  also  but  a  little 
space,  so  small  were  the  armies.  His  lips  parted. 

194 


FOES 

"Well,  Old  Steadfast,  and  what  if  you  are  there, 
waiting?  ..." 

The  sun  sank.  A  faint  red  light  diffused  itself, 
then  faded  into  brown  dusk.  He  rose  and  went 
down  into  the  camp.  In  the  brows  of  many  there 
might  be  read  depression,  uncertainty.  But  in  open 
places  fires  had  been  built,  and  about  several  of  these 
Highlanders  were  dancing  to  the  screaming  of  their 
pipes.  Rullock  bent  his  steps  to  headquarters.  An 
officer  whom  he  knew,  coming  forth,  drew  him  aside 
in  excitement. 

"We've  got  it— we've  got  it,  Rullock!" 

"What?    The  plan?" 

* '  The  way  through !  Here  has  come  to  the  Prince 
the  man  who  owns  the  marsh !  He  knows  the  firm 
ground.  Cope  does  not  know  that  it  is  there! 
Cope  thinks  that  it  is  all  slough!  This  man  swears 
that  he  can  and  will  take  us  across,  one  treading 
behind  another.  It's  settled.  When  sleep  seems  to 
wrap  us,  then  we'll  move!" 

That  was  what  was  done,  and  done  so  perfectly,  late 
at  night,  Sir  John  Cope  sleeping,  thinking  himself 
safe  as  in  a  castle.  File  after  file  wound  noiselessly, 
by  the  one  way  through  the  marsh,  and  upon  the 
farther  side,  so  near  to  Cope,  formed  in  the  dark 
ness  into  battle-lines.  .  .  .  Ian  Rullock,  passing 
through  the  marsh,  saw  in  imagination  Alexander 
lying  with  eyes  closed. 

The  small  force,  the  Stewart  hope,  prepared  for 
onslaught.  The  dawn  was  coming,  there  was  a 
smell  of  it  in  the  air,  far  away  a  cock  crowed. 
There  stood,  in  the  universal  dimness,  a  first  and 
strongest  line,  a  second  and  weaker,  badly  armed 


FOES 

line.  The  mass  of  this  army  were  Highlanders,  alert, 
strong,  accustomed  to  dawn  movements,  dreamlike  in 
the  heather,  along  the  glen-sides,  in  the  crooked 
pass.  They  knew  the  tactics  of  surprise.  They  had 
claymores  and  targes,  and  the  most  muskets.  But 
the  second  line  had  inadequate  provision  of  weapons. 
Many  here  bore  scythes  fastened  to  staves.  As 
they  carried  these  over  their  shoulders  Ian,  looking 
back,  saw  them  against  the  palest  light  like  Death 
in  replica. 

The  two  lines  hung  motionless,  on  stout  ground, 
now  within  the  defense  to  which  Cope  had  trusted, 
very  close  to  the  latter's  sleeping  camp.  There  were 
sentries,  but  the  night  was  dark,  the  marsh  believed 
to  be  unpassable,  the  crossing  carried  out  with 
stealthy  skill.  But  now  the  night  was  going. 

In  the  most  uncertain,  the  faintest  light,  there 
seemed  to  Cope's  watchers,  looking  that  way,  a  line 
of  bushes  not  noted  the  day  before.  Officers  were 
awakened.  A  movement  ran  through  the  camp  like 
the  shiver  of  water  under  dawn  wind.  The  light 
thickened.  A  trumpet  rang  with  a  startled,  em 
phatic  note.  Drums  rolled.  To  arms!  To  arms! 
King  George's  army  started  up  in  the  dawning. 
Infantry  hastened  into  ranks,  cavalrymen  ran  to 
their  horses.  The  line  of  bushes  moved,  began  to 
come  forward  with  great  rapidity. 

The  Highlanders  flung  themselves  upon  Cope's 
just-forming  cavalry.  With  their  claymores  they 
slashed  at  the  faces  of  horses.  The  hurt  beasts 
wheeled,  broke  for  the  rear.  Their  fellows  were 
wounded.  Amid  a  whirlwind  of  blows,  screams, 
shouts,  with  a  suddenness  that  appalled,  disorder 

196 


FOES 

became  general.  The  Highlanders  seemed  to  fight 
with  a  demoniac  strength  and  ferocity  and  after 
methods  of  their  own.  They  used  their  claymores, 
their  dirks,  their  scythes  fastened  upon  poles, 
against  the  horses,  then,  springing  up,  put  long  arms 
about  the  horsemen  and,  regardless  of  sword  or 
pistol,  dragged  them  down.  They  shouted  their 
Gaelic  slogans;  their  costume,  themselves,  seemed 
out  of  a  fiercer,  earlier  world.  A  strangeness  over 
clouded  the  senses;  mist  wreaths  were  everywhere, 
and  an  uncertainty  as  to  the  numbers  of  demons.  .  .  . 
The  cavalry  broke.  Officers  tried  to  save  the  situa 
tion,  to  rally  the  units,  to  save  all  from  being  borne 
back.  But  there  was  no  helping.  Befell  a  panic 
flight,  and  at  its  heels  the  Highland  rush  streamed 
into  and  had  its  way  with  Cope's  infantry.  The 
battle  was  won  with  a  swift  and  horrible  complete 
ness  and  became  a  massacre.  Not  much  quarter 
was  given;  much  that  was  horrible  was  done  and 
seen.  Immoderate  victory  sat  and  sang  to  the  white- 
cockaded  army. 

Out  of  the  mist-bank  before  Captain  Ian  Rullock 
grew  a  great  horse  with  a  man  upon  it  of  great 
stature  and  frame.  It  came  to  the  Jacobite  like  a 
vision,  with  a  startling  and  intense  reality.  He  was 
standing  with  his  sword  drawn;  there  was  a  drift 
of  mist,  and  then  there  was  the  horse  and  rider — 
there  was  Alexander. 

He  looked  down  at  Ian,  and  his  face  was  not  pale 
but  set.  He  made  a  gesture  that  seemed  full  of 
satisfaction,  and  would  have  dismounted  and  drawn 
his  sword.  But  there  came  a  dash  of  maddened 
horses  and  their  riders  and  a  leaping  stream  of  tar- 

197 


FOES 

taned  men.  These  drove  like  a  wedge  between; 
his  horse  wheeled,  would  leave  no  more  its  fellows; 
the  tide  of  brute  and  man  bore  him  away  with  it. 
Ian  watched  all  go  fighting  by,  a  moving  frieze,  out 
of  the  mist  into  the  mist. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  TRIUMPHANT  Stewart  went  back  to  Holy- 
rood,  an  exultant  army,  calling  itself,  now  with 
some  good  show  of  bearing  it  through,  the  " royal' ' 
army,  carried  into  Edinburgh  its  confident  step  and 
sanguine  hue.  Victory  was  with  the  old  line,  the 
magnificent  attempt !  The  erstwhile  doubting  throng 
began,  stage  by  stage,  to  mount  toward  enthusiasm. 
It  was  the  quicker  done  that  Charles  Edward,  or 
his  wisest  advisers,  put  forth  a  series  of  judicious 
civic  and  public  measures.  And,  now  that  Cope 
had  fled,  King  George  had  in  Scotland  no  regular 
troops.  Every  day  there  came  open  accessions  to 
the  Prince's  strength.  The  old  Stewarts  up  again 
became  a  magnet,  drawing  more  and  more  the  filings. 
The  Prince  had  presently  between  five  and  six 
thousand  troops.  The  north  was  his,  Edinburgh, 
the  Jacobites  scattered  through  the  Lowlands.  The 
moderate  Whig  and  Presbyterian  might  begin  to  think 
of  compounding,  of  finding  virtues  in  necessity.  The 
irreconcilables  felt  great  alarm  and  saw  coming  upon 
them  a  helplessness. 

But  the  Stewarts,  with  French  approval  behind, 
aimed  at  the  recovery  of  England  no  less  than  Scot 
land.  Windsor  might  well  overdazzle  Holyrood. 
This  interest  had  received  many  and  strong  pro- 

199 


FOES 

testations  of  support  from  a  wide  swathe  of 
English  nobility  and  gentry.  Lift  the  victorious 
army  over  the  border,  set  it  and  the  young  Prince 
bodily  upon  English  ground,  would  not  great  family 
after  great  family  rouse  its  tenants,  arm  them,  join 
the  Prince?  So  at  least  it  seemed  to  the  flushed 
Stewart  hope.  King  George  was  home  from  Han 
over,  British  troops  being  brought  back  from  the 
Continent.  Best  to  fan  high  the  fire  of  the  rising 
while  it  might  with  most  ease  be  fanned — best  to 
march  as  soon  as  might  be  into  England! 

On  the  ist  of  November  they  marched,  three  de 
tachments  by  three  roads,  and  the  meeting-place 
Carlisle.  All  went  most  merrily  well.  On  the  loth 
of  November  began  the  siege  of  Carlisle.  The 
Prince  had  cannon  now,  some  taken  at  Prestonpans, 
some  arrived,  no  great  time  before,  from  France, 
first  fruits  of  French  support.  The  English  General 
Wade  was  at  Newcastle  with  a  larger  army  than 
that  of  the  Jacobites.  But  the  siege  of  Carlisle  was 
not  lifted  by  Wade.  After  three  days  city  and  castle 
surrendered.  Charles  Edward  and  his  army  en 
tered  England. 

From  Carlisle  they  marched  to  Penrith — to  Ken- 
dal,  Lancaster,  Preston,  Manchester — clear,  well- 
conducted  marches,  the  army  held  well  together 
and  in  hand,  here  and  there  handfuls  of  recruits. 
But  no  flood  of  loyally-shouting  gentry,  no  bearers 
of  great  names  drawing  the  sword  for  King  James 
III  and  a  gallant,  youthful  Regent!  Each  dawn 
said  they  will  come!  Each  eve  said  they  have  not 
come!  One  month  from  leaving  Edinburgh  found 
this  army  of  Highland  chiefs  and  their  clans,  Low- 

200 


FOES 

land  Scots,  a  few  Englishmen,  a  few  Irishmen,  and  ' 
a  few  Frenchmen,  led  by  skilful  enough  generals  and 
by  a  Prince  the  great-grandson  of  Charles  I,  deep  in 
England,  but  little  advanced  in  bulk  for  all  that. 
Old  cavalier  England  stayed  upon  its  acres.  Other 
times,  other  manners!  And  how  to  know  when  an 
old  vortex  begins  to  disintegrate  and  a  mode  of 
action  becomes  antiquated,  belated? 

Wade  was  to  one  side  with  his  army,  and  now  there 
loomed  ahead  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  and  ten 
thousand  English  troops.  Battle  seemed  imminent, 
yet  again  the  Scots  force  pushed  by.  The  4th  of 
December  found  this  strange  wedge,  of  no  great 
mass,  but  of  a  tested,  rapier-like  keenness  and  hard 
ness,  at  the  town  of  Derby,  with  London  not  a  hun 
dred  and  thirty  miles  away.  And  still  no  English 
rising  for  the  rightful  King!  Instead  Whig  armies, 
and  a  slow  Whiggish  buzzing  beginning  through  all 
the  country. 

The  Duke  of  Cumberland  and  Marshal  Wade, 
two  jaws  opening  for  Jacobite  destruction,  had  be 
tween  them  twenty  thousand  men.  Spies  brought 
report  of  thirty  thousand  drawn  up  before  London, 
on  Finchley  Common.  The  Prince  might  have  so 
many  lions  of  the  desert  in  his  Highlanders,  but 
multitude  will  make  a  net  that  lions  cannot  break. 
At  Derby  also  they  had  news  from  that  Scotland 
now  so  dangerously  far  behind  them.  Royal  Scots 
had  landed  from  France,  the  Irish  brigade  from  the 
same  country  was  on  the  seas,  and  French  regiments 
besides.  Lord  John  Drummond  had  in  Scotland 
now  at  least  three  thousand  men  and  good  promise 
of  more.  The  Prince  held  council  with  the  Duke  of 
14  201 


FOES 

Perth,  Lord  George  Murray,  Lord  Nairn,  the  many 
chiefs  and  leading  voices.  Return  to  Scotland,  make 
with  these  newly  gathered  troops  and  with  others  a 
greater  army,  expect  aid  from  France,  stand  in  a 
gained  kingdom  the  onslaught  from  Hanoverian 
England?  Or  go  on — go  on  toward  London?  En 
counter,  defeat,  with  half  his  number,  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland's  ten  thousand,  keep  Wade  from 
closing  in  behind  them,  meet  the  Finchley  Common 
thousands,  come  to  the  enemy's  capital  of  half  a 
•million  souls?  Return  where  there  were  friends? 
Go  on  where  false-promising  friends  hugged  safety? 
Go  on  to  London,  still  hoping,  trusting  still  to  the 
glamour  and  outcry  that  ran  before  them,  to  ex 
traordinary  events  called  miracles?  Hot  was  the 
debate!  But  on  the  6th  of  December  the  Jacobite 
army  turned  back  toward  Scotland. 

It  began  its  homeward  march  long  before  dawn. 
Not  all  nor  most  had  been  told  the  decision.  Even 
the  changed  direction,  eyes  upon  slow-descending 
not  upon  climbing  stars,  did  not  at  first  enlighten. 
It  might  mean  some  detour,  the  Duke  being  out- 
maneuvered.  But  at  last  rose  the  winter  dawn  and 
lit  remembered  scene  after  scene.  The  news  ran. 
The  army  was  in  retreat. 

Ian  Rullock,  riding  with  a  kinsman,  Gordon, 
heard,  up  and  down,  an  angry  lamenting  sound. 
"Little  do  the  clans  like  turning  back!" 

"Hark!  The  chieftains  are  telling  them  it  is  for 
the  best." 

"Is  it  for  the  best?  I  do  not  like  this  month 
or  aught  that  is  done  in  it!" 

A  week  later  they  were  at  Lancaster;  three  days 

202 


FOES 

after  that  at  Kendal.  Here  Wade  might  have 
fallen  upon  them,  but  did  not.  A  day  or  two  and 
the  main  column  approached  Penrith.  The  no 
great  amount  of  artillery  was  yet  precious.  Heavy 
to  drag  over  heavy  roads,  the  guns  and  straining 
horses  were  left  in  the  rear.  Four  companies  of 
Lowland  infantry,  Macdonald  of  Glengarry  and  his 
five  hundred  Highlanders,  a  few  cavalrymen,  and 
Lord  George  Murray  himself  tarried  with  the  guns. 
The  main  column  disappeared,  lost  among  moun 
tains  and  hills;  this  detached  number  had  the  wild 
country,  the  forbidding  road,  the  December  day  to 
themselves.  To  get  the  guns  and  ammunition- 
wagons  along  proved  a  snail-and-tortoise  business. 
Guns  and  escort  fell  farther  and  farther  behind. 

Ian  Rullock,  acting  still  as  aide,  rode  from  the 
Prince  nearing  Penrith  to  Lord  George  Murray,  now 
miles  to  the  rear.  Why  was  the  delay?  and  'ware 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  certainly  close  at  hand! 
The  delay  was  greater,  the  distance  between  farther, 
than  the  Prince  had  supposed.  Rullock  rode  through 
the  late  December  afternoon  by  huge  frozen  waves 
of  earth,  under  a  roof  of  pallid  blue,  in  his  ears  a 
small  complaining  wind  like  a  wailing  child.  He 
rode  till  nightfall,  and  only  then  came  to  his  objec 
tive,  finding  needed  rest  in  the  village  of  Shap. 
Here  he  sought  Lord  George  Murray,  gave  infor 
mation  and  was  given  it  in  turn,  ate,  drank,  and 
then  turned  back  through  the  December  night  to 
the  Prince. 

He  rode  and  the  huge  winter  stars  seemed  to 
watch  him  with  at  once  a  glittering  intentness  and 
a  disdain  of  his  pygmy  being.  Once  he  looked  up  to 

203 


FOES 

them  with  a  gesture  of  his  head.  "Are  we  so  far 
apart  and  so  different?"  he  asked  of  Orion. 

He  was  several  miles  upon  his  way  to  Penrith. 
Before  him  appeared  a  crossroad,  noted  by  him  in 
the  afternoon.  A  great  salient  of  a  hill  overhung 
it,  and  on  the  near  side  a  fir  wood  crept  close.  He 
looked  about  him,  and  as  he  rode  kept  his  hand 
upon  his  pistol.  He  did  not  think  to  meet  an  enemy 
in  strength,  but  there  might  be  lurkers,  men  of  the 
countryside  ready  to  fall  upon  stragglers  from  the 
army  that  had  passed  that  way.  He  had  left  be 
hind  the  crossroad  when  from  in  front,  around  the 
jut  of  the  hill,  came  four  horsemen.  He  turned  his 
head.  Others  had  started  from  the  wood.  He 
made  to  ride  on  as  though  he  were  of  their  kindred 
and  cause,  but  hands  were  laid  upon  his  bridle. 

"Courier,  no  doubt — " 

All  turned  into  the  narrow  road.  Half  an  hour's 
riding  brought  in  sight  a  substantial  farm-house  and 
about  it  the  dimly  flaring  lights  of  a  considerable 
camp,  both  cavalry  and  infantry.  Rullock  supposed 
it  to  be  a  detachment  of  Wade's,  though  it  was  pos 
sible  that  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  might  have 
thrust  advance  troops  thus  far.  He  wished  quite 
heartily  that  something  might  occur  to  warn  Lord 
George  Murray,  the  Macdonalds  and  the  Prince's 
guns,  asleep  at  Shap.  For  himself,  he  might,  if  he 
chose,  pick  out  among  the  glittering  constellations 
a  shape  like  a  scaffold. 

When  he  dismounted  he  was  brought  past  a 
bivouac  fire  and  a  coming  and  going  of  men  afoot 
and  on  horseback,  into  the  farm-house,  where  two 
or  three  officers  sat  at  table.  Questioned,  threat* 

204 


FOES 

ened,  and  re-questioned,  he  had  of  course  nothing 
to  divulge.  The  less  pressure  was  brought  in  that 
these  troops  were  in  possession  of  the  facts  which 
the  moment  desired.  His  name  and  rank  he  gave, 
it  being  idle  to  withhold  them.  In  the  end  he  was 
shut  alone  into  a  small  room  of  the  farm-house, 
behind  a  guarded  door.  He  saw  that  there  was 
planned  an  attack  upon  the  detachment  that  with 
dawn  would  move  from  Shap.  But  this  force  of 
Wade's  or  of  the  Duke's  was  itself  a  detachment 
and  apparently  of  no  great  mass.  He  could  only 
hope  that  Lord  George  and  the  Macdonalds  would 
move  warily  and  when  the  shock  came  be  found 
equal.  All  that  was  beyond  his  control.  In  the 
chill  darkness  he  turned  to  the  consideration  of  his 
own  affair,  which  seemed  desperate  enough.  He 
found,  by  groping,  a  bench  against  the  wall.  Wrap 
ping  himself  in  his  cloak,  he  lay  down  upon  this 
and  tried  to  sleep,  but  could  not.  With  all  his  will 
he  closed  off  the  future,  and  then  as  best  he  might 
the  immediately  environing  present.  After  all, 
these  armies — these  struggles — these  eery  ambitions. 
.  .  .  The  feeling  of  out  of  it  crept  over  him.  It  was  an 
unfamiliar  perception,  impermanent.  Yet  it  might 
leave  a  trace  to  work  in  the  under-consciousness,  on 
a  far  day  to  emerge,  be  revalued  and  added  to. 

This  December  air!  Fire  would  be  good — and 
with  that  thought  he  seemed  to  catch  a  gleam 
through  the  small-paned,  small  window,  and  in  a 
moment  through  the  opening  door.  He  rose  from 
the  bench.  A  man  in  a  long  cloak  entered  the  room, 
behind  him  a  soldier  bearing  a  lantern  which  he 
set  upon  a  shelf  above  a  litter  of  boards  and  kegs. 

205 


FOES 

Dismissed  by  a  gesture,  he  went  out,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him.  The  first  man  dropped  his 
cloak,  drew  a  heavy  stool  from  the  thrust-aside 
lumber,  and  sat  down  beneath  the  lantern.  He 
spoke: 

"Of  all  our  many  meeting-places,  this  looks  most 
like  the  old  cave  in  the  glen!" 

Ian  moistened  his  lips.  He  resumed  his  seat 
against  the  wall.  "I  wondered,  after  Prestonpans, 
if  you  went  home." 

"Did  you?" 

' '  No,  you  are  right.     I  did  not. ' ' 

"At  all  times  it  is  the  liar's  wont  still  to  lie. 
Small  things  or  great — use  or  no  use!" 

"I  am  a  prisoner  and  unarmed.  You  are  the 
captor.  To  insult  lies  in  your  power." 
•  "That  is  a  jargon  that  may  be  dropped  between 
us.  Yet  I,  too,  am  bound  by  conventions!  Seeing 
that  you  are  a  prisoner,  and  not  my  prisoner  only,  I 
cannot  give  you  your  sword  or  pistols,  and  we  can 
not  fight.  .  .  .  The  fighting,  too,  is  a  convention.  I 
see  that,  and  that  it  is  not  adequate.  Yet  so  do 
I  hold  you  in  hatred  that  I  would  destroy  you  in 
this  poor  way  also!" 

The  two  sat  not  eight  feet  apart.  Time  was  when 
either,  finding  himself  in  deadly  straits,  would  have 
seen  in  the  other  a  sure  rescuer,  or  a  friend  to  perish 
with  him.  One  would  have  come  to  the  other  in  a 
burst  of  light  and  warmth.  So  countless  were  the 
associations  between  them,  so  much  knowledge,  after 
all,  did  they  have  of  each  other,  that  even  now,  if 
they  hated  and  contended,  it  must  be,  as  it  were,  a 
contention  within  an  orb.  To  each  hemisphere,  re- 

206 


FOES 

pelling  the  other,  must  yet  come  in  lightning  flashes 
the  face  of  the  whole. 

Glenfernie,  under  the  lantern-light,  looked  like 
the  old  laird  his  father.  "No  long  time  ago,"  he 
said,  "'revenge,*  'vengeance,'  seemed  to  me  words 
of  a  low  order!  It  was  not  so  in  my  boyhood. 
Then  they  were  often  to  me  passionate,  immediate, 
personal,  and  vindicated  words!  But  it  grew  to  be 
that  they  appeared  words  of  a  low  order.  It  is  not 
so  now.  As  far  as  that  goes  I  am  younger  than  I 
was  a  year  ago.  I  stand  in  a  hot,  bright  light  where 
they  are  vindicated.  If  fate  sets  you  free  again, 
yet  I  do  not  set  you  free!  I  shall  be  after  you.  I 
entered  this  place  to  tell  you  that." 

"Do  as  you  will!"  answered  Ian.  Scorn  mounted 
in  his  voice.  "I  shall  withstand  the  shock  of  you!" 

The  net  of  name  and  form  hardened,  grew  more 
iron  and  closer  meshed.  Each  J  contracted,  made 
its  carapace  thicker.  Each  I  bestrode,  like  Apollyon, 
the  path  of  the  other. 

"Why  should  I  undertake  to  defend  myself?"  said 
Ian.  "I  do  not  undertake  to  do  so!  So  at  least  I; 
shall  escape  the  hypocrite!  It  is  in  the  nature*  of 
man  to  put  down  other  kings  and  be  king  himself!" 

"Aye  so?  The  prime  difficulty  in  that  is  that  the. 
others,  too,  are  immortal."  Glenfernie  rising,  hie, 
great  frame  seemed  to  fill  the  little  room.  "Sooner 
may  the  Kelpie's  Pool  sink  into  the  earth  than  I 
forego  to  give  again  to  you  what  you  have  given! 
What  is  now  all  my  wish?  It  is  to  seem  to  you, 
here  and  hereafter,  the  avenger  of  blood  and  fraud! 
Remember  me  so!" 

He  stood  looking  at  the  sometime  friend  with  a 
207 


FOES 

dark  and  working  face.  Then,  abruptly  turning,  he 
went  away.  The  door  of  the  small  room  closed  be 
hind  him.  Ian  heard  the  bolt  driven. 

The  night  went  leadenly  by.  At  last  he  slept, 
and  was  waked  by  trumpets  blowing.  He  saw 
through  the  window  that  it  was  at  faintest  dawn. 
Much  later  the  door  opened  and  a  man  brought 
him  a  poor  breakfast.  Rullock  questioned  him,  but 
could  gain  nothing  beyond  the  statement  that  to 
day  at  latest  the  "rebels"  would  be  wiped  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  When  he  was  gone  Ian  climbed 
to  the  small  window  that,  even  were  it  open  and 
r  unguarded,  was  yet  too  small  for  his  body  to  pass. 
But,  working  with  care,  he  managed  to  loosen  and 
draw  inward  without  noise  one  of  the  round  panes. 
Outside  lay  a  trampled  farm-yard.  A  few  soldiers, 
apparently  invalided,  lounged  about,  but  there  was 
no  such  throng  such  as  he  had  passed  through  when 
they  brought  him  here.  He  supposed  that  the  at 
tack  upon  the  force  at  Shap  might  be  in  progress. 
If  the  Duke  of  Cumberland's  whole  power  was  at 
hand  the  main  column  might  be  set  upon.  All 
around  him  the  hills,  the  farm  inclosure,  and  these 
petty  walls  cut  off  the  outer  world.  The  hours,  the 
day,  limped  somehow  by.  He  walked  to  keep  him 
self  warm.  Back  and  forth  and  to  and  fro.  Decem 
ber — December — December!  How  cold  was  the 
Kelpie's  Pool?  Poisoned  love — poisoned  friendship 
—ambition  in  ruin — bells  ringing  for  executions! 
To  and  fro — to  and  fro.  He  had  always  felt  life 
as  sensuous,  rich,  and  warm,  with  garlands  and 
colors.  It  had  been  large  and  aglow,  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  arabesques  of  imagination  and  emotion. 

208 


FOES 

Thought  had  not  lacked,  but  thought,  too,  bore  a 
personal,  passional  cast,  and  was  much  interested 
in  a  golden  world  of  sense.  Just  this  December  day 
the  world  seemed  the  ocean-bed  of  life,  where  dull 
creatures  moved  slowly  in  cold,  thick  ooze,  and 
annihilation  was  much  to  be  desired.  .  .  .  The  day 
went  by.  The  same  man  brought  him  supper. 
There  seemed  to  be  triumph  in  his  face.  "They'll 
be  bringing  in  more  prisoners  —  unless  we 
don't  make  prisoners!'*  Nothing  more  could  be 
gained  from  that  quarter.  In  the  night  it  be 
gan  to  rain.  He  listened  to  its  dash  against  the 
window.  Black  Hill  came  into  mind,  and  the  rain 
against  his  windows  there.  He  was  cold,  and  he 
tried,  with  the  regressive  sense,  to  feel  himself  in 
that  old,  warm  nest.  His  Black  Hill  room  rose  about 
him,  firelit.  The  fire  lighted  that  Italian  painting 
of  a  city  of  refuge  and  a  fleeing  man,  behind  whom 
ran  the  avenger  of  blood.  .  .  .  Then  it  was  July,  and 
he  was  in  the  glen  with  Elspeth  Barrow.  He  fought 
away  from  the  recollection  of  that,  for  it  involved 
a  sickness  of  the  soul.  .  .  .  Italy!  Think  of  Italy. 
Venice,  and  a  month  that  he  had  spent  there  alone 
— Old  Steadfast  being  elsewhere.  It  had  been  a 
warm  season,  warm  and  rich,  sun-kissed  and  lan 
guorous,  like  the  fruit,  like  the  Italian  women.  .  .  . 
Leave  out  the  women,  but  try  to  feel  again  the  sun 
of  Venice! 

He  tried,  but  the  cold  of  his  prison  fought  with 
the  sun.  Then  suddenly  sprang  clamor  without. 
The  uproar  increased.  He  rose,  he  heard  the  bolts 
open,  the  door  open.  In  came  light  and  voices. 
" Captain  Rullock!  We  beat  them  at  Clifton!  We 

209 


FOES 

learned  that  you  were  here!     Lord  George  sent  us 
back  for  you.  .  .  ." 

Three  days  later  Scotch  earth  was  again  beneath 
their  feet.  They  marched  to  Glasgow;  they  marched 
to  Stirling;  they  fought  the  battle  of  Falkirk  and 
again  there  was  Jacobite  victory.  And  now  there 
was  an  army  of  eight  thousand.  .  .  .  And  then  be 
gan  a  time  of  poor  policy,  mistaken  moves.  And  in 
April  befell  the  battle  of  Culloden  and  far-resound 
ing  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HTHE  green  May  rolled  around  and  below  the 
A  Highland  shelter  where  Ian  lay,  fugitive,  like 
thousands  of  others,  after  Culloden.  The  Prince 
had  stayed  to  give  an  order  to  his  broken  army. 
Sauve  qui  pent!  Then  he,  too,  became  a  fugitive, 
passing  from  one  fastness  to  another  of  these  glens 
and  the  mountains  that  over  towered  them.  The 
Stewart  hope  was  sunk  in  the  sea  of  dead  hopes. 
Cumberland,  with  for  the  time  and  place  a  great 
force  and  with  an  ugly  fury,  hunted  all  who  had  been 
in  arms  against  King  George. 

Ian  Rullock  couched  high  upon  a  mountain-side, 
in  a  shelter  of  stone  and  felled  tree  built  in  an  angle 
of  crag,  screened  by  a  growth  of  birch  and  oak, 
made  long  ago  against  emergencies.  A  path,  de 
vious  and  hidden,  connected  it  first  with  a  hut  far 
below,  and  then,  at  several  miles'  distance,  with  the 
house  of  a  chieftain,  now  a  house  of  terror,  with 
the  chieftain  in  prison  and  his  sons  in  hiding,  and 
the  women  watching  with  hard-beating  hearts.  Ian, 
a  kinsman  of  the  house,  had  been  given,  faute  de 
mieux,  this  old,  secret  hold,  far  up,  where  at  least 
he  could  see  danger  if  it  approached.  Food  had  been 
stored  for  him  here  and  sheepskins  given  for  bedding. 
He  was  so  masked  by  splintered  and  fallen  pieces  of 

211 


FOES 

rock  that  he  might,  with  great  precautions,  kindle 
a  fire.  A  spring  like  a  fairy  cup  gave  him  water. 
More  than  one  rude  comfort  had  been  provided. 
He  had  even  a  book  or  two,  caught  up  from  his  kins 
man's  small  collection.  He  had  been  here  fourteen 
days. 

At  first  they  were  days  and  nights  of  vastly  needed 
rest.  Bitter  had  been  the  fatigue,  privation,  wan 
dering,  immediately  after  Culloden!  Now  he  was 
rested. 

He  was  by  nature  sanguine.  When  the  sun  had 
irretrievably  blackened  and  gone  out  he  might  be 
expected  at  least  to  attempt  to  gather  materials 
and  ignite  another.  He  was  capable  of  whistling 
down  the  wind  those  long  hopes  of  fame  and  fortune 
that  had  hung  around  the  Stewart  star.  And  now 
he  was  willing  to  let  go  the  old  half -acknowledged 
boyish  romance  and  sentiment,  the  glamour  of  the 
imagination  that  had  dressed  the  cause  in  hues  not 
its  own.  Two  years  of  actual  contact  with  the 
present  incarnations  of  that  cause  had  worn  the 
sentiment  threadbare. 

Seated  or  lying  upon  the  brown  earth  by  the 
splintered  crag,  alone  save  for  the  wheeling  birds 
and  the  sound  of  wind  and  water  and  the  sailing 
clouds,  he  had  time  at  last  for  the  rise  into  mind, 
definitely  shaped  and  visible,  of  much  that  had 
been  slowly  brewing  and  forming.  He  was  con 
scious  of  a  beginning  of  a  readjustment  of  ideas. 
For  a  long  time  now  he  had  been  pledged  to  personal 
daring,  to  thought  forced  to  become  supple  and  con 
centrated,  to  hard,  practical  planning,  physical 
hardship  and  danger.  In  the  midst  of  this  had  be- 

212 


FOES 

gun  to  grow  up  a  criticism  of  all  the  enterprises  upon 
which  he  was  engaged.  Scope — in  many  respects 
the  Jacobite  character,  generally  taken,  was  amiable 
and  brave,  but  its  prime  exhibit  was  not  scope! 
Somewhat  narrow,  somewhat  obsolete;  lan's  mind 
now  saw  Jacobitism  in  that  light.  As  he  sat  with 
out  his  rock  fortress,  in  the  shadow  of  birch-trees, 
with  lower  hills  and  glens  at  his  feet,  he  had  a  pale 
vision  of  Europe,  of  the  world.  Countries  and  times 
showed  themselves  contiguous.  "Causes,"  dynas 
tic  wars,  political  life,  life  in  other  molds  and  hues, 
appeared  in  chords  and  sequences  and  strokes  of 
the  eye,  rather  than  in  the  old  way  of  innumerable, 
vivid,  but  faintly  connected  points.  "I  begin  to 
see,"  thought  Ian,  "how  things  travel  together,  like 
with  like!"  His  body  was  rested,  recovered,  his 
mind  invigorated.  He  had  had  with  him  for  long 
days  the  very  elixir  of  solitude.  Relations  and  as 
sociations  that  before  had  been  banked  in  ignorance 
came  forth  and  looked  at  him.  "You  surely  have 
known  us  before,  though  you  had  forgotten  that 
you  knew  us !"  He  found  that  he  was  taking  delight 
in  these  expansions  of  meaning.  He  thought,  "If 
I  can  get  abroad  out  of  this  danger,  out  of  old  circles, 
I'll  roam  and  study  and  go  to  school  to  wider  plans!" 
He  suddenly  thought,  "This  land  of  thing  is  what 
Old  Steadfast  meant  when  he  used  to  say  that  I 
did  not  see  widely  enough."  He  moved  sharply. 
A  hot  and  bitter  flood  seemed  to  well  up  within 
him.  "He  himself  is  seeing  narrowly  now — Alex 
ander  Jardine!" 

He  left  the  crag  and  went  for  a  scrambling  and 
somewhat    dangerous    walk    along    the    mountain- 
sis 


FOES 

side.  There  was  peril  in  leaving  that  one  rock- 
curtained  place.  Two  days  before  he  had  seen 
what  he  thought  to  be  signs  of  red-coated  soldiers 
in  the  glen  far  below.  But  he  must  walk — he  must 
exercise  his  body,  note  old  things,  not  give  too 
much  time  to  new  perceptions!  He  breathed  the 
keen,  sweet  mountain  air;  with  a  knife  that  he  had 
he  fell  to  making  a  staff  from  a  young  oak;  he 
watched  the  pass  below  and  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds;  he  climbed  fairly  to  the  mountain-top  and 
had  a  great  view;  he  sang  an  old  song,  not  aloud, 
but  under  his  breath;  and  at  last  he  must  come  back 
with  solitude  to  his  fastness.  And  here  was  brood 
ing  thought  again! 

Two  more  days  passed.  The  man  from  the  hut 
below  in  the  pass  came  at  dusk  with  food  carefully 
sent  from  the  chieftain's  hall.  Redcoats  had  gone 
indeed  through  the  glen,  but  they  could  never  find 
the  path  to  this  place!  They  might  return  or  they 
might  not;  they  were  like  the  devil  who  rose  by 
your  side  when  you  were  most  peaceful!  Angus 
went  down  the  mountain-side.  The  sound  of  his 
footstep  died  away.  Ian  had  again  Solitude  herself. 

Another  day  and  night  passed.  He  watched  the 
sun  climb  toward  noon,  and  as  the  day  grew  warm 
he  heard  a  step  upon  the  hidden  path.  With  a 
pistol  in  either  hand  he  moved,  as  stealthily,  as  silent 
ly  as  might  be,  to  a  platform  of  rock  that  overhung 
the  way  of  the  intruder.  In  another  moment  the 
latter  was  in  sight — one  man  climbing  steadily  the 
path  to  the  old  robber  fastness.  He  saw  that  it 
was  Glenfernie.  No  one  followed  him.  He  came 
on  alone. 

214 


FOES 

Rullock  put  by  his  pistols  and,  moving  to  a  chair 
of  rock,  sat  there.  The  other's  great  frame  rose 
level  with  him,  stepped  upon  the  rocky  floor.  Ian 
had  been  growing  to  feel  an  anger  at  solitude.  When 
he  saw  Alexander  he  had  not  been  able  to  check  an 
inner  movement  of  welcome.  He  felt  an  old — he 
even  felt  a  new — affection  for  the  being  upon  whom, 
certainly,  he  had  leaned.  There  flowed  in,  in  an 
impatient  wave,  the  consideration  that  he  must 
hate.  .  .  . 

But  Glenfernie  hated.     Ian  rose  to  face  him. 

"So  you've  found  your  way  to  my  castle?  It  is 
a  climb !  You  had  best  sit  and  rest  yourself.  I  have 
my  sword  now,  and  I  will  give  you  satisfaction." 

Glenfernie  nodded.  He  sat  upon  a  piece  of  fallen 
rock.  "Yes,  I  will  rest  first,  thank  you!  I  have 
searched  since  dawn,  and  the  mountain  is  steep. 
Besides,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Ian  brought  from  his  cupboard  oat-cake  and  a 
flask  of  brandy.  The  other  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  food  at  sunrise,  and  I  drank  from  a  spring 
below." 

"Very  good!" 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  sat  looking  down  the 
mountain-sides  and  over  to  far  hills  and  moving 
clouds,  much  as  he  used  to  sit  in  the  crook  of  the 
old  pine  outside  the  broken  wall  at  Glenfernie. 
There  was  a  trick  of  posture  when  he  was  at  certain 
levels  within  himself.  Ian  knew  it  well. 

"Perhaps  I  should  tell  you,"  said  Alexander, 
"that  I  came  alone  through  the  pass  and  that  I 
have  been  alone  for  some  days.  If  there  are  sol- 
<diers  near  I  do  not  know  of  them." 

215 


FOES 

"It  is  not  necessary/*  answered  Ian.*  While  he 
spoke  he  saw  in  a  flash  both  that  his  confidence  was 
profound  that  it  was  not  necessary,  and  that  that 
incapacity  to  betray  that  might  be  predicated  of 
Old  Steadfast  was  confined  to  but  one  of  the  two 
upon  this  rock.  The  enlightenment  stung,  then 
immediately  brought  out  a  reaction.  "To  each 
some  specialty  in  error!  I  no  more  than  he  am 
monstrous!"  There  arose  a  desire  to  defend  him 
self,  to  show  Old  Steadfast  certain  things.  He  spoke. 
"We  are  going  to  fight  presently — " 

"Yes." 

"That's  understood.  Now  listen  to  me  a  little  I 
For  long  years  we  were  together,  friends  near  and 
warm!  You  knew  that  I  saw  differently  from  you 
in  regard  to  many  things — in  regard,  for  instance,  to 
women.  I  remember  old  discussions.  .  .  .  Well,  you 
differed,  and  sometimes  you  were  angry.  But  for 
all  that,  friendship  never  went  out  with  violence! 
You  knew  the  ancient  current  that  I  swam  in — that 
it  was  narrower,  more  mixed  with  earth,  than  your 
own!  But  you  were  tolerant.  You  took  me  as  I 
was.  .  .  .  What  has  developed  was  essentially  there 
then,  and  you  knew  it.  The  difference  is  that  at 
last  it  touched  what  you  held  to  be  your  own. 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  sinner  became  anathema!" 

"In  some  part  you  say  truth.  But  my  load  of 
inconsistency  does  not  lighten  yours  of  guilt." 

"Perhaps  not.  We  were  friends.  Five-sixths  of 
me  made  a  fair  enough  friend  and  comrade.  We 
interlocked.  You  had  gifts  and  possessions  I  had 
not.  I  liked  the  oak-feeling  of  you — the  great  ship 
in  sail!  In  turn,  I  had  the  key,  perhaps,  to  a  few 

216 


FOES 

lands  of  bloom  and  flavor  that  you  lacked.  We 
interchanged  and  thought  that  we  were  each  the 
richer.  Five-sixths.  .  .  .  Say,  then,  that  the  other 
sixth  might  be  defined  as  no-friend,  or  as  false 
friend!  Say  that  it  was  wilful,  impatient  of  su^ 
periorities,  proud,  vain,  willing  to  hurt,  betray,  and 
play  the  demon  generally!  Say  that  once  it  gave 
itself  swing  it  darkened  some  of  the  other  sixths.  .  .  . 
Well,  it  is  done!  Yet  there  was  gold.  Perhaps, 
laird  of  Glenfernie,  there  is  still  gold  in  the  mine!" 

"You  are  mistaken  in  your  proportions.  Gold! 
You  are  to  me  the  specter  of  the  Kelpie's  Pool!" 

Silence  held  for  a  minute  or  two.  The  clouds, 
passing  between  earth  and  sun,  made  against  the 
mountain  slopes  impalpable,  dark,  fantastic  shapes. 
An  eagle  wheeled  above  its  nest  at  the  mountain- 
top.  Ian  spoke  again.  His  tone  had  altered. 

"If  I  do  not  decline  remorse,  I  at  least  decline 
the  leaden  cope  of  it  you  would  have  me  wear! 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  fair  play  to  oneself !  Two 
years  ago  come  August  Elspeth  Barrow  and  I  agreed 
to  part—" 

"Oh,  'agreed'—" 

"Have  it  so!  I  said  that  we  must  part.  She 
acquiesced — and  that  without  the  appeals  that  the 
stage  and  literature  show  us.  Oh,  doubtless  I 
might  have  seen  a  pierced  spirit,  and  did  not,  and 
was  brute  beast  there !  But  one  thing  you  have  got 
to  believe,  and  that  is  that  neither  of  us  knew  what 
was  to  happen.  Even  with  that,  she  was  aware  of 
how  a  letter  might  be  sent,  with  good  hope  of  reach 
ing  me.  She  was  not  a  weak,  ignorant  girl.  ...  I 
went  away,  and  within  a  fortnight  was  deep  in  that 
15  217 


FOES 

long  attempt  that  ends  here.  I  became  actively  an 
agent  for  the  Prince  and  his  father.  A  hundred 
names  and  their  fates  were  in  my  hands.  You  can 
fill  in  the  multitude  of  activities,  each  seeming  small 
in  itself,  but  \  le  whole  preoccupying  every  field. 
...  If  Elspeth  Barrow  wrote  I  never  received  her 
letter.  When  my  thought  turned  in  that  direction, 
it  saw  her  well  and  not  necessarily  unhappy.  Time 
passed.  For  reasons,  I  ceased  to  write  home,  and 
again  for  reasons  I  obliterated  paths  by  which  I 
might  be  reached.  For  months  I  heard  nothing, 
as  I  said  nothing.  I  was  on  the  very  eve  of  quitting 
Paris,  under  careful  disguise,  to  go  into  Scotland. 
Came  suddenly  your  challenge — and  still,  though  I 
knew  that  to  you  at  least  our  relations  must  have 
been  discovered,  I  knew  no  more  than  that!  I  did 
not  know  that  she  was  dead.  ...  I  could  not  stay  to 
fight  you  then.  I  left  you  to  brand  me  as  you 
pleased  in  your  mind." 

"I  had  already  branded  you." 

"Later,  I  saw  that  you  had.  Perhaps  then  I 
did  not  wonder.  In  September — almost  a  year 
from  that  Christmas  Eve — I  yet  did  not  know. 
Then,  in  Edinburgh,  I  came  upon  Mr.  Wotherspoon. 
He  told  me.  ...  I  had  no  wicked  intent  toward 
Elspeth  Barrow — none  according  to  my  canon, 
which  has  been  that  of  the  natural  man.  We  met 
by  accident.  We  loved  at  once  and  deeply.  She 
had  in  her  an  elf  queen!  But  at  last  the  human 
must  have  darkened  and  beset  her.  Had  I  known  of 
those  fears,  those  dangers,  I  might  have  turned  home 
ward  from  France  and  every  shining  scheme.  ..." 

"Ah  no,  you  would  not — " 
218 


FOES 

".  .  .  If  I  would  not,  then  certainly  I  should  have 
written  to  Jarvis  Barrow  and  to  others,  acknowledg 
ing  my  part — " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  have  done  that.  Perhaps 
not.  You  might  have  found  reasons  of  obligation 
for  not  doing  so.  ' Loved  deeply'!  You  never 
loved  her  deeply!  You  have  loved  nothing  deeply 
save  yourself!" 

"Perhaps.  Yet  I  think,"  said  Ian,  "that  I  would 
have  done  as  much  as  that.  But  Alexander  Jar- 
dine,  of  course,  would  not  have  taken  one  erring 
step!" 

"Have  you  done  now?" 

"Yes." 

Glenfernie  rose  to  his  feet.  He  stood  against  the 
gulf  of  air  and  his  great  frame  seemed  enlarged, 
like  the  figure  of  the  Brocken.  He  was  like  his 
father,  the  old  laird,  but  there  glowed  an  extremer 
dark  anger  and  power.  The  old  laird  had  made 
himself  the  dream-avenger  of  injuries  adopted,  not 
felt  at  first  hand.  The  present  laird  knew  the 
wounding,  the  searing.  "All  his  life  my  father 
dreamed  of  grappling  with  Grierson  of  Lagg.  My 
Grierson  of  Lagg  stands  before  me  in  the  guise  of  a 
false  friend  and  lover!  .  .  .  What  do  I  care  for  your 
weighing  to  a  scruple  how  much  the  heap  of  wrong 
falls  short  of  the  uttermost?  The  dire  wrong  is 
there,  to  me  the  direst!  Had  I  deep  affection  for 
you  once?  Now  you  speak  to  me  of  every  treacher 
ous  morass,  every  ignis  fatuus,  past  and  present! 
The  traveler  through  life  does  right  to  drain  the 
bogs  as  they  arise — put  it  out  of  their  power  to  suck 
down  man,  woman,  and  child!  It  is  not  his  cause 

219 


FOES 

alone.  It  is  the  general  cause.  If  there  be  a  God, 
He  approves.  Draw  your  sword  and  let  us  fight!" 
I  They  fought.  The  platform  of  rock  was  smooth 
enough  for  good  footing.  They  had  no  seconds,  un 
less  the  shadows  upon  the  hills  and  the  mountain 
eagles  answered  for  such.  Ian  was  the  highly  trained 
fencer,  adept  of  the  sword.  Glenfernie's  knowledge 
was  lesser,  more  casual.  But  he  had  his  bleak 
wrath,  a  passion  that  did  not  blind  nor  overheat, 
but  burned  white,  that  set  him,  as  it  were,  in  a 
tingling,  crackling  arctic  air,  where  the  shadows 
were  sharp-edged,  the  nerves  braced  and  the  will 
steel-tipped.  They  fought  with  determination  and 
long — Ian  now  to  save  his  own  life,  Alexander  for 
Revenge,  whose  man  he  had  become.  The  clash  of 
blade  against  blade,  the  shifting  of  foot  upon  the 
rock  floor,  made  the  dominant  sound  upon  the 
mountain-side.  The  birds  stayed  silent  in  the  birch- 
trees.  Self-service,  pride,  anger,  jealousy,  hatred — 
the  inner  vibrations  were  heavy. 

The  sword  of  Ian  beat  down  his  antagonist's 
guard,  leaped,  and  gave  a  deep  wound.  Alexander's 
sword  fell  from  his  hand.  He  staggered  and  vision 
darkened.  He  came  to  his  knees,  then  sank  upon 
the  ground.  Ian  bent  over  him.  He  felt  his  anger 
ebb.  A  kind  of  compunction  seized  him.  He 
thought,  "Are  you  so  badly  hurt,  Old  Steadfast?" 

Alexander  looked  at  him.  His  lips  moved.  "Lo, 
how  the  wicked  prosper!  But  do  you  think  that 
Justice  will  hare  it  so?"  The  blood  gushed;  he  sank 
back  in  a  swoon. 

On  this  mountain-side,  some  distance  below  the 
fastness,  a  stone,  displaced  by  a  human  foot,  rolled 

220 


FOES 

down  the  slope  with  a  clattering  sound.  The  fugi 
tive  above  heard  it,  thought,  too,  that  he  caught  other 
sounds.  He  crossed  to  the  nook  whence  he  had  view 
of  the  way  of  approach.  Far  down  he  saw  the  red 
coats,  and  then,  much  nearer,  coming  out  from 
dwarf  woods,  still  King  George's  men. 

Ian  caught  up  his  belt  and  pistols.  He  sheathed 
his  sword.  "  They '11  find  you  and  save  you,  Glen- 
fernie!  I  do  not  think  that  you  will  die!"  Above 
him  sprang  the  height  of  crag,  seemingly  unscalable. 
But  he  had  been  shown  the  secret,  just  possible  stair. 
He  mounted  it.  Masked  by  bushes,  it  swung  around 
an  abutment  and  rose  by  ledge  and  natural  tunnel, 
perilous  and  dizzy,  but  the  one  way  out  to  safety. 
At  last,  a  hundred  feet  above  the  old  shelter,  he 
dipped  over  the  crag  head  to  a  saucer-like  de 
pression  walled  from  all  redcoat  view  by  the  sur 
mounted  rock.  With  a  feeling  of  triumph  he  plunged 
through  small  firs  and  heather,  and,  passing  the 
mountain  brow,  took  the  way  that  should  lead  him 
to  the  next  glen. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HPHE  laird  of  Glenfernie,  rising  from  the  great 
A  chair  by  the  table,  moved  to  the  window  of  the 
room  that  had  been  his  father's  and  mother's,  the 
room  where  both  had  died.  He  remembered  the 
wild  night  of  snow  and  wind  in  which  his  father 
had  left  the  body.  Now  it  was  August,  and  the 
light  golden  upon  the  grass  and  the  pilgrim  cedar. 
Alexander  walked  slowly,  with  a  great  stick  under 
his  hand.  Old  Bran  was  dead,  but  a  young  Bran 
stretched  himself,  wagged  his  tail,  and  looked  be 
seechingly  at  the  master. 

'Til  let  you  out,"  said  the  latter,  "but  I  am  a 
prisoner;  I  cannot  let  myself  out!" 

He  moved  haltingly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
the  dog  ran  forth.  Glenfernie  returned  to  the  win 
dow.  ' '  Prisoner. ' '  The  word  brought  to  his  strong 
ly  visualizing  mind  prisoners  and  prisons  through 
all  Britain  this  summer — shackled  prisoners,  dark 
prisons,  scaffolds.  ...  He  leaned  his  head  against 
the  window-frame. 

"O  God  that  my  father  and  my  grandfather 
served — God  of  old  times — of  Israel  in  Egypt!  I 
think  that  I  would  release  them  all  if  I  could — all 
but  one!  Not  him!"  He  looked  at  the  cedar. 
"Who  was  he,  in  truth,  who  planted  that,  perhaps 

222 


FOES 

for  a  remembrance?  And  he,  and  all  men,  had 
and  have  some  one  deep  wrong  that  shall  not  be 
brooked!" 

He  stood  in  a  brown  study  until  there  was  a  tap 
at  the  door.  "Come  in!" 

Alice  entered,  bearing  before  her  a  bowl  of  flowers 
of  all  fair  hues  and  shapes.  She  herself  was  like  a 
bright,  strong,  winsome  flower.  "To  make  your 
room  look  bonny!"  she  said,  and  placed  the  bowl 
upon  the  table.  To  do  so  she  pushed  aside  the 
books.  "What  a  withered,  snuff -brown  lot!  Won't 
you  be  glad  when  you  are  back  in  the  keep  with  all 
the  books?" 

Glenfernie,  wrapped  in  a  brown  gown,  came  with 
his  stick  back  to  the  great  chair  before  the  books. 
"Bonny — they  are  bonny!"  he  said  and  touched  the 
flowers.  "I've  set  a  week  from  to-day  to  be  dressed 
and  out  of  this  and  back  to  the  keep.  Another  week, 
and  I  shall  ride  Black  Alan." 

"Ah,"  said  Alice.  "You  mustn't  determine  that 
you  can  do  it  all  yourself !  There  will  be  the  doctor 
and  the  wound!" 

Alexander  took  her  hands  and  held  them.  "You 
are  a  fine  philosopher!  Where  is  Strickland?" 

"Helping  Aunt  Grizel  with  accounts.  Do  you 
want  him?" 

"When  you  go.  But  not  for  a  long  while  if  you 
will  stay." 

Alice  regarded  him  with  her  mother's  shrewdness. 
"Oh,  Glenfernie,  for  all  you've  traveled  and  are  so 
learned,  it's  not  me  nor  Mr.  Strickland,  but  the 
moon  now  that  you're  wanting !  I  don't  know  what 
your  moon  is,  but  it's  the  moon!" 

223 


FOES 

Alexander  laughed.  "And  is  not  the  moon  a 
beautiful  thing?" 

"The  books  say  that  it  is  cold  and  almost  dead, 
wrinkled  and  ashen.  But  I've  got  to  go,"  said 
Alice,  "and  I'll  send  you  Mr.  Strickland." 

Strickland  came  presently.  "You  look  much 
stronger  this  morning,  Glenfernie.  I'm  glad  of  that ! 
Shall  I  read  to  you,  or  write?" 

"Read,  I  think.  My  eyes  dazzle  still  when  I 
try.  Some  strong  old  thing — the  Plutarch  there. 
Read  the  Brutus.1' 

Strickland  read.  He  thought  that  now  Alexander 
listened,  and  that  now  he  had  traveled  afar.  The 
minutes  passed.  The  flowers  smelled  sweetly,  mur 
muring  sounds  came  in  the  open  windows.  Bran 
scratched  at  the  door  and  was  admitted.  Far  off, 
Alice's  voice  was  heard  singing.  Strickland  read 
on.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie  was  not  at  Rome,  in 
the  Capitol,  by  Pompey's  statue.  He  walked  with 
Elspeth  Barrow  the  feathery  green  glen. 

Davie  appeared  in  the  door.  "A  letter,  sir,  come 
post."  He  brought  it  to  Glenfernie's  outstretched 
hand. 

"From  Edinburgh — from  Jamie,"  said  the  latter. 

Strickland  laid  down  his  book  and  moved  to  the 
window.  Standing  there,  his  eyes  upon  the  great 
cedar,  massive  and  tall  as  though  it  would  build 
a  tower  to  heaven,  his  mind  left  Brutus,  Caesar,  and 
Cassius,  and  played  somewhat  idly  over  the  British 
Isles.  He  was  recalled  by  an  exclamation,  not  loud, 
but  so  intense  and  fierce  that  it  startled  like  a  meteor 
of  the  night.  He  turned.  Glenfernie  sat  still  in  his 
great  chair,  but  his  features  were  changed,  his  mouth 

224 


FOES 

working,  his  eyes  shooting  light.  Strickland  ad 
vanced  toward  him. 

"Not  bad  news  of  Jamie!" 

"Not  of  Jamie!  From  Jamie."  He  thrust  the 
letter  under  the  other's  eyes.  "Read — read  it 
out!" 

Strickland  read  aloud. 

"Here  is  authoritative  news.  Ian  Rullock,  after  lying  two 
months  in  the  tolbooth,  has  escaped.  A  gaoler  connived,  it  is 
supposed,  else  it  would  seem  impossible.  Galbraith  tells  me  he 
would  certainly  have  been  hanged  in  September.  It  is  thought 
that  he  got  to  Leith  and  on.  board  a  ship.  Three  cleared  that 
day — for  Rotterdam,  for  Lisbon,  and  Virginia." 

Alexander  took  the  letter  again.  "That  is  all  of 
that  import."  Strickland  once  more  felt  astonish 
ment.  Glenfernie's  tone  was  quiet,  almost  matter- 
of-fact.  The  blood  had  ebbed  from  his  face;  he 
sat  there  collected,  a  great  quiet  on  the  heels  of 
storm.  It  was  impossible  not  to  admire  the  power 
that  could  with  such  swiftness  exercise  control. 
Strickland  hesitated.  He  wished  to  speak,  but  did 
not  know  how  far  he  might  with  wisdom.  The 
laird  forestalled  him. 

"Sit  down!  This  is  to  be  talked  over,  for  again 
my  course  of  life  alters." 

Strickland  took  his  chair.  He  leaned  his  arm 
upon  the  table,  his  chin  upon  his  hand.  He  did 
not  look  directly  at  the  man  opposite,  but  at  the 
bowl  of  flowers  between  them. 

"When  a  man  has  had  joy  and  lost  it,  what  does 
he  do?"  Glenfernie's  voice  was  almost  contem 
plative. 

225 


FOES 

"One  man  one  thing,  and  one  another,"  said 
Strickland.  "After  his  nature." 

"No.  All  go  seeking  it  in  the  teeth  of  death  and 
horror.  That's  universal!  Joy  must  be  sought. 
But  it  may  not  wear  the  old  face;  it  may  wear 
another." 

"I  suppose  that  true  joy  has  one  face." 

"When  one  platonizes — perhaps!  I  keep  to-day 
to  earth,  to  the  cave.  Do  you  know,"  said  Alex 
ander,  "why  I  sit  here  wounded?" 

"Of  outward  facts  I  do  not  know  any  more  than 
is,  I  think,  pretty  generally  known  through  this 
countryside." 

"As—?" 

Strickland  looked  still  at  the  bowl  of  flowers. 
"It  is  known,  I  think,  that  you  loved  Elspeth  Bar 
row  and  would  have  wedded  her.  And  that,  while 
you  were  from  home,  the  man  who  called  himself, 
and  was  called  by  you,  your  nearest  friend,  stepped 
before  you — made  love  to  her,  betrayed  her — and 
left  her  to  bear  the  shame.  ...  I  myself  know  that 
he  kept  you  in  ignorance,  and  that,  away  from  here, 
he  let  you  still  write  to  him  in  friendship  and  an 
swered  in  that  tone.  .  .  .  All  know  that  she  drowned 
herself  because  of  him,  and  that  you  knew  naught 
until  you  yourself  entered  the  Kelpie's  Pool  and 
found  her  body  and  carried  her  home.  .  .  .  After  that 
you  left  the  country  to  find  and  fight  Ian  Rullock. 
Folk  know,  too,  that  he  evaded  you  then.  You  re 
turned.  Then  came  this  insurrection,  and  news 
that  he  was  in  Scotland  with  the  Pretender.  You 
joined  the  King's  forces.  Then,  after  Culloden, 
you  found  the  false  friend  in  hiding,  in  the  moun- 

226 


FOES 

tains.  The  two  of  you  fought,  and,  as  is  often  the 
way,  the  injurer  seemed  again  to  win.  You  were 
dangerously  wounded.  He  fled.  Soldiers  upon  his 
track  found  you  lying  in  your  blood.  You  were 
carried  to  Inverness.  Dickson  and  I  went  to  you, 
brought  you  at  last  home.  In  the  mean  time  came 
news  that  the  man  you  fought  had  been  taken  by 
the  soldiers.  I  suppose  that  we  have  all  had 
visions  of  him,  in  prison,  expecting  to  suffer  with 
other  conspirators." 

"Yes,  I  have  had  visions  .  .  .  outward  facts!  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  the  inner,  northern  ocean,  where  sleep 
all  the  wrecks?" 

"As  I  have  watched  you  since  you  were  a  boy, 
it  is  improbable  that  I  should  not  have  some  divin 
ing  power.  In  Inverness,  too,  while  you  were  fe 
vered,  you  talked  and  talked.  .  .  .  You  have  walked 
with  Tragedy,  felt  her  net  and  her  strong  whip." 
Strickland  lifted  his  eyes  from  the-  bowl,  pushed 
back  his  chair  a  little,  and  looked  full  at  the  laird 
of  Glenfernie.  "What  then?  Rise,  Glenfernie,  and 
leave  her  behind!  And  if  you  do  not  now,  it  will 
soon  be  hard  for  you  to  do  so!  Remember,  too, 
that  I  watched  your  father — " 

"After  I  find  Ian  Rullock  in  Holland  or  Lisbon 
or  America — " 

Strickland  made  a  movement  of  deep  concern. 
' '  You  have  met  and  fought  this  man.  Do  you  mean 
so  to  nourish  vengeance — " 

"I  mean  so  to  aid  and  vindicate  distressed  Jus 
tice." 

"Is  it  the  way?" 

"I  think  that  it  is  the  way." 
227 


FOES 

Strickland  was  silent,  seeing  the  uselessness. 
Glenfernie  was  one  to  whom  conviction  must  come 
from  within.  A  stillness  held  in  the  room,  broken 
by  the  laird  in  the  voice  that  was  growing  like  his 
father's.  "Nothing  lacks  now  but  strength,  and  I 
am  gaining  that — will  gain  it  the  faster  now !  Travel 
— travel! .  .  .  All  my  travel  was  preparatory  to  this." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Strickland,  "to  kill  him 
when  you  find  him?" 

"I  like  your  directness.  But  I  do  not  know — I 
do  not  know!  ...  I  mean  to  be  his  following  fiend. 
To  have  him  ever  feel  me — when  he  turns  his  head 
ever  to  see  me!" 

The  other  sighed  sharply.  He  thought  to  him 
self,  "Oh,  mind,  thy  abysses!" 

Indeed,  Glenfernie  looked  at  this  moment  stronger. 
He  folded  Jamie's  letter  and  put  it  by.  He  drew 
the  bowl  of  flowers  to  him  and  picked  forth  a  rose. 
"A  week — two  at  most — and  I  shall  be  wholly  re 
covered  !"  His  voice  had  fiber,  decision,  even  a  kind 
of  cheer. 

Strickland  thought,  "It  is  his  fancied  remedy,  at 
which  he  snatches!" 

Glenfernie  continued:  "We'll  set  to  work  to 
morrow  upon  long  arrangements!  With  you  to 
manage  here,  I  will  not  be  missed."  Without  wait 
ing  for  the  morrow  he  took  quilland  paper  and 
began  to  figure. 

Strickland  watched  him.  At  last  he  said,  "Will 
you  go  at  once  in  three  ships  to  Holland,  Portugal, 
and  America?" 

"Has  the  onlooker  room  for  irony,  while  to  me  it 
looks  so  simple?  I  shall  ship  first  to  the  likeliest 

228 


FOES 

land.  ...  In  ten  days — in  two  weeks  at  most — to 
Edinburgh—" 

Strickland  left  him  figuring  and,  rising,  went  to 
the  window.  He  saw  the  great  cedar,  and  in  mind 
the  pilgrim  who  planted  it  there.  All  the  pilgrims 
— all  the  crusaders — all  the  men  in  Plutarch;  the 
long  frieze  of  them,  the  full  ocean  of  them  ...  all 
the  self -search,  dressed  as  search  of  another.  "I, 
too,  I  doubt  not — I,  too!"  Buried  scenes  in  his  own 
life  rose  before  Strickland.  Behind  him  scratched 
Glenfernie's  pen,  sounded  Glenfernie's  voice: 

"I  am  going  to  see  presently  if  I  can  walk  as  far 
as  the  keep.  In  two  or  three  days  I  shall  ride. 
There  are  things  that  I  shall  know  when  I  get  to 
Edinburgh.  He  would  take,  if  he  could,  the  ship 
that  would  land  him  at  the  door  of  France." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ALEXANDER  rode  across  the  moors  to  the  glen 
*~*  head.  Two  or  three  solitary  farers  that  he  met 
gave  him  eager  good  day. 

"Are  ye  getting  sae  weel,  laird?  I  am  glad  o' 
that!" 

"Good  day,  Mr.  Jardine!  I  rejoice  to  see  you 
recovered.  Well,  they  hung  more  of  them  yester 
day!" 

"Gude  day,  Glenfernie!  It's  a  bonny  morn,  and 
sweet  to  be  living!" 

At  noon  he  looked  down  on  the  Kelpie's  Pool. 
The  air  was  sweet  and  fine,  bird  sounds  came 
from  the  purple  heather.  The  great  blue  arch  of 
the  sky  smiled ;  even  the  pool,  reflecting  day,  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  cold  and  dread.  But  for  Glen 
fernie  a  dull,  cold,  sick  horror  overspread  the  place. 
He  and  Black  Alan  stood  still  upon  the  moor  brow. 
Large  against  the  long,  clean,  horizon  sweep,  they 
looked  the  sun-bathed,  stone  figures  of  horse  and 
man,  set  there  long  ago,  guarding  the  moor,  giving 
warning  of  the  kelpie. 

"None  has  been  found  to  warn.  There  is  none 
but  the  kelpie  waits  for.  .  .  .  But  punish — punish!" 

He  and  Black  Alan  pushed  on  to  the  head  of  the 
glen.  Here  was  Mother  Binning's  cot,  and  here  he 

230 


FOES 

dismounted,  fastening  the  horse  to  the  ash-tree. 
Mother  Binning  was  outdoors,  gathering  herbs  in 
her  apron. 

She  straightened  herself  as  he  stepped  toward  her. 
"Eh,  laird  of  Glenfernie,  ye  gave  me  a  start!  I 
thought  ye  came  out  of  the  ground  by  the  ash-tree! 
.  .  .  Wound  is  healed,  and  life  runs  on  to  another 
springtime?" 

"Yes,  it's  another  springtime.  ...  I  do  not  think 
that  I  believe  in  scrying,  Mother  Binning.  But 
I'm  where  I  pick  up  all  straws  with  which  to 
build  me  a  nest!  Sit  down  and  scry  for  me,  will 
you?" 

"I  canna  scry  every  day,  nor  every  noon,  nor 
every  year.  What  are  you  wanting  to  see,  Glen 
fernie?" 

"Oh,  just  my  soul's  desire!" 

Mother  Binning  turned  to  her  door.  She  put 
down  the  herbs,  then  brought  a  pan  of  water  and 
set  it  down  upon  the  door-step,  and  herself  beside 
it.  "It  helps — onything  that's  still  and  clear! 
Wait  till  the  ripple's  gane,  and  then  dinna  speak  to 
me.  But  gin  I  see  onything,  it  will  na  be  sae  great 
a  thing  as  a  soul's  desire." 

She  sat  still  and  he  stood  still,  leaning  against  the 
side  of  her  house.  Mother  Binning  sat  with  fixed 
gaze.  Her  lips  moved.  "There's  the  white  mist. 
It's  clearing." 

"Tell  me  if  you  see  a  ship." 

"Yes,  I  see  it  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me  if  you  see  its  port." 

"Yes,  I  see." 

231 


FOES 

"Describe  it — the  houses,  the  country,  the  dress 
and  look  of  the  people — " 

Mother  Binning  did  so. 

"That's  not  Holland — that  would  be  Lisbon. 
Look  at  the  ship  again,  Mother.  Look  at  the 
sailors.  Look  at  the  passengers  if  there  are  any. 
Whom  do  you  see?" 

"Ah!"  said  Mother  Binning.  "There's  a  braw 
wrong-doer  for  you,  sitting  drinking  Spanish  wine!" 

"Say  his  name." 

"It's  he  that  once,  when  you  were  a  lad,  you 
brought  alive  from  the  Kelpie's  Pool." 

"Thank  you,  Mother!  That's  what  I  wanted. 
Scrying!  Who  gives  to  whom — who  gives  back  to 
whom?  The  underneath  great  I,  I  suppose.  Left 
hand  giving  to  right  —  and  no  brand-new  news! 
All  the  same,  other  drifts  concurring,  I  think  that 
he  fled  by  the  Lisbon  ship!" 

Mother  Binning  pushed  aside  the  pan  of  water 
and  rubbed  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  She  took  up 
her  bundle  of  herbs.  "Hoot,  Glenfernie!  do  ye 
think  that's  your  soul's  desire?" 

Jock  came  limping  around  the  house.  Alexan 
der  could  not  now  abide  the  sight  of  this  cripple 
who  had  spied,  and  had  not  shot  some  fashion  of 
arrow!  He  said  good-by  and  loosed  Black  Alan 
from  the  ash-tree  and  rode  away.  He  would  not 
tread  the  «glen.  His  memory  recoiled  from  it  as 
from  some  Eastern  glen  of  serpents.  He  and  Black 
Alan  went  over  the  moors.  And  still  it  was  early 
and  he  had  his  body  strength  back.  He  rode  to 
Littlefarm. 

Robin  Greenlaw  was  in  the  field,  coat  off  in  the 

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FOES 

gay,  warm  weather.  He  came  to  Glenfernie's  side, 
and  the  latter  dismounted  and  sat  with  him  under 
a  tree.  Greenlaw  brought  a  stone  jug  and  tankard 
and  poured  ale. 

The  laird  drank.  "That's  good,  Robin!"  He  put 
down  the  tankard.  "Are  you  still  a  poet?" 

"If  I  was  so  once  upon  a  time,  I  hope  I  am  so 
still.  At  any  rate,  I  still  make  verses.  And  I  see 
poems  that  I  can  never  write." 

"' Never ' — how  long  a  word  that  is!" 

Greenlaw  gazed  at  the  workers  in  the  field.  "I 
met  Mr.  Strickland  the  other  day.  He  says  that 
you  will  travel  again." 

"'Travel'— yes." 

"The  Jardine  Arms  gets  it  from  the  Edinburgh 
road  that  Ian  Rullock  made  a  daring  escape." 

"He  had  always  ingenuity  and  a  certain  sort  of 
physical  bravery." 

"So  has  Lucifer,  Milton  says.  But  he's  not 
Lucifer." 

"No.     He  is  weak  and  small." 

"Well,  look  Glenfernie!  I  would  not  waste  my 
soul  chasing  him!" 

"How  dead  are  you  all!    You,  'too,  Greenlaw!" 

Robin  flushed.  "  No !  I  hate  all  that  he  did  that 
is  vile!  If  all  his  escaping  leads  him  to  violent 
death,  I  shall  not  find  it  in  me  to  grieve!  But  all 
the  same,  I  would  not  see  you  narrowed  to  the  wolf- 
hunter  that  will  never  make  the  wolf  less  than  the 
wolf!  I  don't  know.  I've  always  thought  of  you 
as  one  who  would  serve  Wisdom  and  show  us  -her 
beauty—" 

"To  me  this  is  now  wisdom — this  is  now  beauty. 

16  233 


FOES 

Poets  may  stay  and  make  poetry,  but  I  go  after 
Ian  Rullock!" 

"Oh,  there's  poetry  in  that,  too,"  said  Greenlaw, 
"because  there's  nothing  in  which  there  isn't 
poetry!  But  you're  choosing  the  kind  you're  not 
best  in,  or  so  it  seems  to  me." 

Glenfernie  rode  from  Littlefarm  homeward.  But 
the  next  day  he  and  Black  Alan  went  to  Black 
Hill.  Here  he  saw  Mr.  Touris  alone.  That  gentle 
man  sat  with  a  shrunken  and  shriveled  look. 

"Eh,  Glenfernie!  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are 
yourself  again!  Well,  my  sister's  son  has  broken 
prison." 

"Yes,  one  prison." 

"God  knows  they  were  all  mad!  But  I  could  not 
wish  to  see  him  in  my  dreams,  hanging  dark  from 
the  King's  gallows!" 

"From  the  King's  gallows  and  for  old,  mad, 
Stewart  hopes?  I  find,"  said  Glenfernie,  "that  I 
do  not  wish  that,  either.  He  would  have  gone  for 
the  lesser  thing — and  the  long  true,  right  ven 
geance  been  delayed!" 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Mr.  Touris,  dully. 

"His  wrong  shall  be  ever  in  his  mind,  and  I  the 
painter's  brush  to  paint  it  there!  Give  me,  O  God, 
the  power  of  genius!" 

"Are  you  going  to  follow  him  and  kill  him?" 

"I  am  going  to  follow  him.  At  first  I  thought 
that  I  would  kill  him.  But  my  mind  is  changing 
as  to  that." 

Mr.  Touris  sighed  heavily.  ' '  I  don't  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  the  world.  .  .  .  One  does  one's  best, 
but  all  goes  wrong.  All  kinds  of  hopes  and  plans. 

234 


FOES 

.  .  .  When  I  look  back  to  when  I  was  a  young  man, 
I  wonder.  ...  I  set  myself  an  aim  in  life,  to  lift  me 
and  mine  from  poverty.  I  saved  for  it,  denied  for 
it,  was  faithful.  It  came  about  and  it's  ashes  in 
my  mouth!  Yet  I  took  it  as  a  trust,  and  was  faith 
ful.  What  does  the  Bible  say,  '  Vanity  of  vanities '  ? 
But  I  say  that  the  world's  made  wrong. " 

Glenfernie  left  him  at  last,  wrinkled  and  shrunken 
and  shriveled,  cold  on  a  summer  day,  plying  him 
self  with  wine,  a  serving-man  mending  the  fire  upon 
the  hearth.  Alexander  went  to  Mrs.  Alison's  par 
lor.  He  found  her  deep  chair  placed  in  the  garden 
without,  and  she  herself  sitting  there,  a  book  in 
hand,  but  not  read,  her  form  very  still,  her  eyes 
upon  a  shaft  of  light  that  was  making  vivid  a  row 
of  flowers.  The  book  dropped  beside  her  on  the 
grass;  she  rose  quickly.  The  last  time  they  had 
met  was  before  Culloden,  before  Prestonpans. 

She  came  to  him.  "You're  well,  Alexander! 
Thanks  be!  Sit  down,  my  dear,  sit  down!"  She 
would  have  made  him  take  her  chair,  but  he  laughed 
and  brought  one  for  himself  from  the  room.  "I 
bless  my  ancestors  for  a  physical  body  that  will 
not  keep  wounds!" 

She  sank  into  her  chair  again  and  sat  in  silence, 
gazing  at  him.  Her  clear  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
but  she  shook  them  away.  At  last  she  spoke: 
"Oh,  I  see  the  other  sort  of  wounds!  Alexander! 
lay  hold  of  the  nature  that  will  make  them,  too, 
to  heal!" 

"Saint  Alison,"  he  answered,  "look  full  at  what 
went  on.  Now  tell  me  if  those  are  wounds  easy 
to  heal.  And  tell  me  if  he  were  not  less  than  a 

235 


FOES 

man  who  pocketed  the  injury,  who  said  to  the  in- 
jurer,  'Go  in  peace!'" 

She  looked  at  him  mournfully.  "Is  it  to  pocket 
the  injury?  Will  not  all  combine — silently,  silently 
— to  teach  him  at  last?  Less  than  man — man — 
more  than  man,  than  to-day's  appearing  man?  .  .  . 
I  am  not  wise.  For  yourself  and  the  ring  of  your 
moment  you  may  be  judging  inevitably,  rightly.  .  .  . 
But  with  what  will  you  overcome — and  in  over 
coming  what  will  you  overcome?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Oh,  friend, 
once  I,  too,  could  be  metaphysical!  I  cannot  now." 

Speech  failed  between  them.  They  sat  with 
eyes  upon  the  garden,  the  old  tree,  the  August  blue 
sky,  but  perhaps  they  hardly  saw  these.  At  last 
she  turned.  She  had  a  slender,  still  youthful 
figure,  an  oval,  lovely,  still  young  face.  Now  there 
was  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  in  her  eyes  a  light 
deep,  touching,  maternal. 

"Go  as  you  will,  hunt  him  as  you  will,  do  what 
you  will!  And  he,  too — Ian!  Ian  and  his  sins. 
Grapes  in  the  wine-press — wheat  beneath  the  flail 
— ore  in  the  ardent  fire,  and  over  all  the  clouds  of 
wrath!  Suffering  and  making  to  suffer — sinning 
and  making  to  sin.  .  .  .  And  yet  will  the  dawn  come, 
and  yet  will  you  be  reconciled!" 

"Not  while  memory  holds!" 

"Ah,  there  is  so  much  to  remember!  Ian  has  so 
much  and  you  have  so  much.  .  .  .  When  the  great 
memory  comes  you  will  see.  But  not  now,  it  is 
apparent,  not  now!  So  go  if  you  will  and  must, 
Alexander,  with  the  net  and  the  spear!" 

"Did  he  not  sin?" 

236 


FOES 

"Yes." 

"I  also  sin.  But  my  sin  does  not  match  his! 
God  makes  use  of  instruments,  and  He  shall  make 
use  of  me!'* 

' 'If  He  'shall,'  then  He  shall.  Let  us  leave  talk 
of  this.  Where  you  go  may  love  and  light  go,  too 
— and  work  it  out,  and  work  it  out!" 

He  did  not  stay  long  in  her  garden.  All  Black 
Hill  oppressed  him  now.  The  dark  crept  in  upon 
the  light.  She  saw  that  it  was  so. 

"He  can  be  friends  now  with  none.  He  sees  in 
each  one  a  partisan — his  own  or  lan's."  She  did 
not  detain  him,  but  when  he  rose  to  say  good-by 
helped  him  to  say  it  without  delay. 

He  went,  and  she  paced  her  garden,  thinking  of 
Ian  who  had  done  so  great  wrong,  and  Alexander 
who  cried,  "My  enemy!"  She  stayed  in  the  gar 
den  an  hour,  and  then  she  turned  and  went  to  play 
piquet  with  the  lonely,  shriveled  man,  her  brother. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

TWO  days  after  this  Glenfernie  rode  to  White 
Farm.  Jenny  Barrow  met  him  with  exclama 
tions. 

1 '  Oh,  Mr.  Alexander !  Oh,  Glenfernie !  And  they 
say  that  you  are  amaist  as  weel  as  ever — but  to 
me  you  look  twelve  years  older!  Eh,  and  this 
warld  has  brought  gray  into  my  hair !  Father's  gane 
to  kirk  session,  and  Gilian's  awaV 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  Her  hands  went  on 
paring  apples,  while  her  eyes  and  tongue  were 
busy  elsewhere. 

''They  say  you're  gaeing  to  travel." 

"Yes.  I'm  starting  very  soon." 

"It's  na  said  oot — but  a  kind  of  whisper's  been 
gaeing  around."  She  hesitated,  then,  "Are  you 
gaeing  after  him,  Glenfernie?" 

"Yes." 

Jenny  put  down  her  knife  and  apple.  She  drew 
a  long  breath,  so  that  her  bosom  heaved  under  her 
striped  gown.  A  bright  color  came  into  her  cheeks. 
She  laughed.  "Aweel,  I  wadna  spare  him  if  I  were 
you!" 

He  sat  with  her  longer  than  he  had  done  with 
Mrs.  Alison.  He  felt  nearer  to  her.  He  could  be 
friends  with  her,  while  he  moved  from  the  other  as 

238 


FOES 

from  a  bloodless  wraith.  Here  breathed  freely  all 
the  strong  vindications !  He  sat,  sincere  and  strong, 
and  sincere  and  strong  was  the  countrywoman  be 
side  him. 

"Oh  aye!"  said  Jenny.  "He's  a  villain,  and  I 
wad  gie  him  all  that  he  gave  of  villainy!" 

"That  is  right,"  said  Alexander,  "to  look  at  it 
simply!"  He  felt  that  those  were  his  friends  who 
felt  in  this  as  did  he. 

On  the  moor,  riding  homeward,  he  saw  before 
him  Jarvis  Barrow.  Dismounting,  he  met  the  old 
man  beside  a  cairn,  placed  there  so  long  ago  that 
there  was  only  an  elfin  story  for  the  deeds  it  com 
memorated. 

"Gude  day,  Glenfernie!  So  that  Hieland  traitor 
did  not  slay  ye?" 

"No." 

Jarvis  Barrow,  white-headed,  strong-featured,  far 
yet,  it  seemed,  from  incapacitating  old  age,  took  his 
seat  upon  a  great  stone  loosened  from  the  mass. 
He  leaned  upon  his  staff;  his  collie  lay  at  his  feet. 
"Many  wad  say  a  lang  time,  with  the  healing  in  it 
of  lang  time,  since  a  fause  lover  sang  in  the  ear  of 
my  granddaughter,  in  the  glen  there!" 

"Aye,  many  would  say  it." 

"I  say  'a  fause  lover.'  But  the  ane  to  whom  she 
truly  listened  is  an  aulder  serpent  than  he  ...  wae 
to  her!" 

"No,  no!" 

"But  I  say  'aye!'  I  am  na  weak!  She  that 
worked  evil  and  looseness,  harlotry,  strife,  and 
shame,  shall  she  na  have  her  hire?  As,  Sunday  by 
Sunday,  I  wad  ha'  set  her  in  kirk,  before  the  con- 

239 


FOES 

gregation,  for  the  stern  rebuking  of  her  sin,  so,  mak 
no  doubt,  the  Lord  pursues  her  now !  Aye,  He  shakes 
His  wrath  before  her  eyes!  Wherever  she  turns 
she  sees  ' Fornicatress '  writ  in  flames!" 

"Not" 

"But  aye!" 

"Where  she  was  mistaken — where,  maybe,  she 
was  wilfully  blind — she  must  learn.  Not  the  learn 
ing  better,  but  the  old  mistake  until  it  is  lost  in 
knowledge,  will  clothe  itself  in  suffering !  But  that 
is  but  a  part  of  her!  If  there  is  error  within,  there 
is  also  Michael  within  to  make  it  of  naught!  She 
releases  herself.  It  is  horrible  to  me  to  see  you 
angered  against  her,  for  you  do  not  discriminate — 
and  you  are  your  Michael,  but  not  hers!" 

'  *  Adam  is  speaking — still  the  woman's  lover !  I'm 
not  for  contending  with  you.  She  tore  my  heart 
working  folly  in  my  house,  and  an  ill  example,  and 
for  herself  condemnation!" 

"Leave  her  alone!  She  has  had  great  unhappi- 
ness!"  He  moved  the  small  stones  of  the  cairn  with 
his  fingers.  "I  am  going  away  from  Glenfernie." 

"Aye.  It  was  in  mind  that  ye  would !  You  and 
he  were  great  friends." 

"The  greater  foes  now." 

"I  gie  ye  full  understanding  there!" 

"With  my  father,  those  he  hated  were  beyond 
his  touch.  So  he  walked  among  shadows  only. 
But  to  me  this  world  is  a  not  unknown  wood  where 
roves,  alive  and  insolent,  my  utter  enemy!  I  can 
touch  him  and  I  will  touch  him!" 

"Not  you,  but  the  Lord  Wha  abides  not  evil! 
.  .  .  How  sune  will  ye  be  gaeing,  Glenfernie?" 

240 


FOES 

"As  soon  as  I  can  ride  far.  As  soon  as  everything 
is  in  order  here.  I  know  that  I  am  going,  but  I 
do  not  know  if  I  am  returning." 

"I  haud  na  with  dueling.  It's  un-Christian. 
But  mony's  the  ancient  gude  man  that  Jehovah 
used  for  sword!  Aye,  and  approved  the  sword  that 
he  used — calling  him  faithful  servant  and  man  after 
His  heart!  I  am  na  judging.*1 

From  the  moor  Glenfernie  rode  through  the  vil 
lage.  Folk  spoke  to  him,  looked  after  him;  chil 
dren  about  the  doors  called  to  others,  "It's  tha 
laird  on  Black  Alan!"  Old  and  young  women,  dis 
taff  or  pan  or  pot  or  pitcher  in  hand,  turned  head, 
gazed,  spoke  to  themselves  or  to  one  another.  The 
Jardine  Arms  looked  out  of  doors.  "He's  unco  like 
tha  auld  laird!"  Auld  Willy,  that  was  over  a  hun 
dred,  raised  a  piping  voice,  "Did  ye  young  things 
remember  Gawin  Elliot  that  was  his  great-grand 
father  ye'd  be  saying,  'Ye  might  think  it  was  Gawin 
Elliot  that  was  hangit!"'  Mrs.  Macmurdo  came  to 
her  shop  door.  "Eh,  the  laird,  wi'  all  the  straw  of 
all  that's  past  alight  in  his  heart!" 

Alexander  answered  the  "good  days,"  but  he  did 
not  draw  rein.  He  rode  slowly  up  the  steep  village 
street  and  over  the  bare  waste  bit  of  hill  until  here 
was  the  manse,  with  the  kirk  beyond  it.  Coming 
out  of  the  manse  gate  was  the  minister.  Glenfernie 
checked  his  mare.  All  around  spread  a  bare  and 
lonely  hilltop.  The  manse  and  the  kirk  and  the 
minister's  figure  buttressed  each  the  others  with  a 
grim  strength.  The  wind  swept  around  them  and 
around  Glenfernie. 

Mr.  M'Nab,  standing  beside  the  laird,  spoke 

241 


FOES 

earnestly.  "We  rejoice,  Glenfernie,  that  you  are 
about  once  more!  There  is  the  making  in  you  of  a 
grand  man,  like  your  father.  It  would  have  been 
down-spiriting  if  that  son  of  Belial  had  again  tri 
umphed  in  mischief.  The  weak  would  have  found 
it  so." 

"What  is  triumph?" 

"Ye  may  well  ask  that!  And  yet,"  said  M'Nab, 
"I  know.  It  is  the  warm-feeling  cloak  that  Good 
when  it  hath  been  naked  wraps  around  it,  seeing 
the  spoiler  spoiled  and  the  wicked  fallen  into  the 
pit  that  he  digged!" 

"Aye,  the  naked  Good." 

The  minister  looked  afar,  a  dark  glow  and  energy 
in  his  thin  face.  "They  are  in  prison,  and  the  scaf 
folds  groan — they  who  would  out  with  the  Kirk 
and  a  Protestant  king  and  in  with  the  French  and 
popery!" 

"Your  general  wrong,"  said  Glenfernie,  "barbed 
and  feathered  also  for  a  Scots  minister's  own  inmost 
nerve!  And  is  not  my  wrong  general  likewise? 
Who  hates  and  punishes  falsity,  though  it  were 
found  in  his  own  self,  acts  for  the  common  good!" 

"Aye!"  said  the  minister.  "But  there  must  be 
assurance  that  God  calls  you  and  that  you  hate 
the  sin  and  not  the  sinner!" 

"Who  assures  the  assurances?    Still  it  is  I!" 

Glenfernie  rode  on.  Mr.  M'Nab  looked  after  him 
with  a  darkling  brow.  "That  was  heathenish — !" 

Alexander  passed  kirk  and  kirkyard.  He  went 
home  and  sat  in  the  room  in  the  keep,  under  his 
hand  paper  upon  which  he  made  figures,  diagrams, 
words,  and  sentences.  When  the  next  day  came 

242 


FOES 

he  did  not  ride,  but  walked.  He  walked  over  the 
hills,  with  the  kirk  spire  before  him  lifting  toward 
a  vast,  blue  serenity.  Presently  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  kirkyard,  its  gravestones  and  yew-trees. 
He  had  met  few  persons  upon  the  road,  and  here  on 
the  hilltop  held  to-day  a  balmy  silence  and  solitude. 
As  he  approached  the  gate,  to  which  there  mounted 
five  ancient,  rounded  steps  of  stone,  he  saw  sitting 
on  one  of  these  a  woman  with  a  basket  of  flowers. 
Nearer  still,  he  found  that  it  was  Gilian  Barrow. 

She  waited  for  him  to  come  up  to  her.  He  took 
his  place  upon  the  steps.  All  around  hung  still  and 
sunny  space.  The  basket  of  flowers  between  them 
was  heaped  with  marigolds,  pinks,  and  pansies. 

'Tor  Elspeth,"  said  Gilian. 

"It  is  almost  two  years.  You  have  ceased  to 
grieve?" 

"Ah  no!  But  one  learns  how  to  marry  grief  and 
gladness." 

"Have  you  learned  that?  That  is  a  long  lesson. 
But  some  are  quicker  than  others  or  had  learned 
much  beforehand.  .  .  .  Where  is  Elspeth?" 

"Oh,  she  is  safe,  Glenfernie!" 

"I  wanted  her  body  safe — safe,  warm,  in  my 
arms!" 

"Spirit  and  spirit.     Meet  spirit  with  spirit!" 

"No!  I  crave  and  hunger  and  am  cold.  Unless 
I  warm  myself — unless  I  warm  myself — with  anger 
and  hatred!" 

"I  wish  it  were  not  so!" 

"I  had  a  friend.  ...  I  warm  myself  now  in  the 
hunt  of  a  foe — in  his  look  when  he  sees  me!" 

Gilian  smote  her  hands  together.  "So  Elspeth 

243 


FOES 

would  have  loved  that!  So  the  smothered  God  in 
you  loves  that!" 

"It  is  the  God  in  me  that  will  punish  him!" 

"Is  it— is  it,  Glenfernie?" 

He  made  a  wide  gesture  of  impatience.  "Cold — 
languid — pithless!  You,  Robin,  Strickland,  Alison 
Touris— - " 

Gilian  looked  at  her  basket  of  marigolds,  pinks, 
and  pansies.  "That  word  death.  ...  I  bring  these 
here,  but  Elspeth  is  with  me  everywhere!  There  is 
a  riddle — -there  is  a  strange,  huge  mistake.  She 
must  solve  it,  she  must  make  that  port  of  all  ports 
— and  you  and  I  must  make  it.  ...  It  is  a  hard, 
heroic,  long  adventure!'* 

"I  speak  of  the  pine-tree  in  the  blast,  and  such 
as  you  would  give  me  pansies!  I  speak  of  the 
eagle  at  the  crag-top  in  the  storm,  and  you  offer 
butterflies!" 

"Ah,  then,  go  and  kill  her  lover  and  the  man 
who  was  your  friend!" 

Glenfernie  rose  from  the  step,  in  his  face  strong 
anger  and  denial.  He  stood,  seeking  for  words, 
looking  down  upon  the  seated  woman  and  her 
flowers.  She  met  him  with  parted  lips  and  a  straight, 
fearless  look. 

"Will  you  take  half  the  flowers,  Glenfernie,  and 
put  them  for  Elspeth?" 

"No.     I  cannot  go  there  now!" 

"I  thought  you  would  not.  Now  I  am  Elspeth. 
I  love  her.  I  would  give  her  gladness — serve  her. 
She  says,  'Let  him  alone!  Do  you  not  know  that 
his  own  weird  will  bring  him  into  dark  countries 
and  light  countries,  and  where  he  is  to  go?  Is  your 

244 


'FOES 

own  tree  to  be  made  thwart  and  misshapen,  that 
his  may  be  reminded  that  there  is  lightness  of 
growth?  He  is  a  tree — he  is  not  a  stone,  nor  will 
he  become  a  stone.  There  is  a  law  a  little  larger 
than  your  fretfulness  that  will  take  care  of  him! 
I  like  Glenfernie  better  when  he  is  not  a  busybody!' " 

Alexander  stared  at  her  in  anger.  ''Differences 
where  I  thought  to  find  likeness — likenesses  where 
I  thought  to  find  differences!  He  deceived  me, 
fooled  me,  played  upon  me  as  upon  a  pipe;  took 
my  own — " 

"Ha!"  said  Gilian.  "So  you  are  going  a-hunting 
for  more  reasons  than  one? — Elspeth,  Elspeth! 
come  out  of  it! — for  Glenfernie,  after  all,  avenges 
himself!0 

Alexander,  looking  like  his  father,  spoke  slowly, 
with  laboring  breath.  "Had  one  asked  me,  I  should 
have  said  that  you  above  all  might  understand. 
But  you,  too,  betray!"  With  a  sweep  of  his  arms 
abroad,  a  gesture  abrupt  and  desolate,  he  turned. 
He  quitted  the  sunny  bare  space,  the  kirkyard  and 
the  woman  sitting  with  her  basket  of  marigolds  and 
pansies. 

But  two  nights  later  he  came  to  this  place  alone. 

The  moon  was  full.  It  hung  like  a  wonder  lan 
tern  above  the  hill  and  the  kirk;  it  made  the  kirk- 
yard  cloth  of  silver.  The  yews  stood  unreal,  or  with 
a  delicate,  other  reality.  It  was  neither  warm  nor 
cold.  The  moving  air  neither  struck  nor  caressed, 
but  there  breathed  a  sense  of  coming  and  going, 
unhurried  and  unperplexed,  from  far  away  to  far 
away.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie  crossed  long  grass 
to  where,  for  a  hundred  years,  had  been  laid  the 

245 


FOES 

dead  from  White  Farm.  There  was  a  mound  bare 
to  the  sunlight  thrown  from  the  moon.  He  saw 
the  flowers  that  Gilian  had  brought. 

The  flowers  were  colorless  in  the  moonlight — and 
yet  they  could  be,  and  were,  clothed  with  a  hue 
of  anger  from  himself.  They  lay  before  him  pur 
ple-crimson.  They  were  withered,  but  suddenly 
they  had  sap,  life,  fullness — but  a  distasteful,  re 
minding  life,  a  life  in  opposition!  He  took  them 
and  threw  them  away. 

Now  the  mound  rested  bare.  He  lay  down  be 
side  it.  He  stretched  his  arms  over  it.  "Elspeth!" 
—and  "Elspeth!"— and  "Elspeth!"  But  Elspeth 
did  not  answer — only  the  cool  sunlight  thrown  back 
from  the  moon. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IAN  traveled  toward  a  pass  through  the  Pyre 
nees.  Behind  him  stretched  difficult,  hazard 
ous,  slow  travel — weeks  of  it.  Behind  those  weeks 
lay  the  voyage  to  Lisbon,  and  from  Lisbon  in  a 
second  boat  north  to  Vigo.  From  Vigo  to  this  day 
of  forested  slopes  and  brawling  streams,  steadily 
worsening  road,  ruder  dwellings,  more  primitive, 
impoverished  folk,  rolled  a  time  of  difficulties  small 
and  great,  like  the  mountain  pebbles  for  number. 
It  took  will  and  wit  at  strain  to  dissolve  them  all, 
and  so  make  way  out  of  Spain  into  France — through 
France — to  Paris,  where  were  friends. 

Spanish  travel  was  difficult  at  best — Spanish  travel 
with  scarcely  any  gold  to  travel  on  found  the  "best" 
quite  winnowed  out.  Slow  at  all  times,  it  grew, 
lacking  money,  to  be  like  one  of  those  dreams 
of  retardation.  Ian  gathered  and  blew  upon  his 
philosophy,  and  took  matters  at  last  with  some 
amusement,  at  times,  even,  with  a  sense  of  the 
enjoyable. 

He  was  not  quite  penniless.  Those  who  had 
helped  in  his  escape  from  Edinburgh  had  provided 
him  gold.  But,  his  voyage  paid  for,  he  must  buy 
at  Vigo  fresh  apparel  and  a  horse.  When  at  last 
he  rode  eastward  and  northward  he  was  poor  enough ! 

247 


FOES 

Food  and  lodging  must  be  bought  for  himself  and 
his  steed.  Inns  and  innkeepers,  chance  folk  ap 
plied  to  for  guidance,  petty  officials  in  perennially 
suspicious  towns — twenty  people  a  day  stood  ready 
to  present  a  spectral  aspect  of  leech  and  gold-sucker ! 
He  was  expert  in  traveling,  but  usually  he  had 
borne  a  purse  quite  like  that  of  Fortunatus.  Now 
he  must  consider  that  he  might  presently  have  to 
sell  his  horse — and  it  was  not  a  steed  of  Roland's, 
to  bring  a  great  price!  He  might  be  compelled  to 
go  afoot  into  France.  He  might  be  sufficiently 
blessed  if  the  millennium  did  not  find  him  yet  living 
by  his  wits  in  Spain.  It  was  Spanish,  that  pros 
pect!  Turn  what?  Ian  asked  himself.  Bull-fighter 
— fencing-master — gipsy — or  brigand?  He  played 
with  the  notion  of  fencing-master.  But  he  would 
have  to  sell  his  horse  to  provide  room  and  equip 
ment,  and  he  must  turn  aside  to  some  considerable 
town.  Brigand  would  be  easier,  in  these  wild  forests 
and  rock  fortresses  that  climbed  and  stood  upon  the 
sky-line.  Matter  enough  for  perplexity!  But  the 
sweep  of  forest  and  mountain  wall  was  admirable — 
admirable  the  air,  the  freedom  from  the  Edinburgh 
prison.  Except  occasionally,  in  the  midst  of  some 
intensification  of  annoyance,  he  rode  and  maneu 
vered  undejected. 

Past  happenings  might  and  did  come  across  him 
in  waves.  He  remembered,  he  regretted;  he  pur 
sued  a  dialectic  with  various  convenient  divisions 
of  himself.  But  all  that  would  be  lost  for  long 
times  in  the  general  miraculous  variety  of  things! 
On  the  whole,  going  through  Spain  in  the  autumn 
weather,  even  with  poverty  making  mouths  along- 

248 


FOES 

side,  was  not  a  sorry  business !  Zest  lived  in  pitting 
vigor  and  wit  against  mole  hills  threatening  an 
aggregation  into  mountains !  As  for  time,  what  was 
it,  anyhow,  to  matter  so  much?  He  owned  time 
and  a  wide  world. 

Delay  and  delay  and  delay.  In  one  town  the 
alcalde  kept  him  a  week,  denying  him  the  road 
beyond  while  inquiries  were  made  as  to  his  identity 
or  non-identity  with  some  famed  outlaw  escaping 
from  justice.  Further  on,  his  horse  fell  badly  lame 
and  he  stayed  day  after  day  in  a  miserable  village, 
lounging  under  a  cork-tree,  learning  patois.  There 
was  a  girl  with  great  black  eyes.  He  watched  her, 
two  or  three  times  spoke  to  her.  But  when  she  saw 
how  he  must  haggle  over  the  price  of  food  and 
lodging  she  laughed,  and  returned  to  the  side  of  a 
muleteer  with  a  sash  and  little  bells  upon  his  hat. 

All  along  the  road  fell  these  retardations.  Then 
as  the  mountains  loomed  higher,  the  spirit  of  con 
tradiction  apparently  grew  tired  and  fell  behind. 
For  several  days  he  traveled  quite  easily.  "My 
Lady  Fortune,"  asked  Ian,  "what  is  up  your  sleeve?" 

The  air  stayed  smiling  and  sweet.  In  a  town 
half  mountain,  half  plain,  he  made  friends  at  the 
inn  with  Don  Fernando,  son  of  an  ancient,  proud, 
decaying  house,  poor  as  poverty.  Don  Fernando 
had  been  in  Paris,  knew  by  hearsay  England,  and 
had  heard  Scotland  mentioned.  Spaniard  and  Scot 
drank  together.  The  former  was  drawn  into  almost 
love  of  Ian.  Here  was  a  help  against  boundless 
ennui!  Ian  and  his  horse,  and  the  small  mail 
strapped  behind  the  saddle,  finally  went  off  with 
Don  Fernando  to  spend  a  week  in  his  old  house  on 

17  249 


FOES 

the  hillside  just  without  the  town.  Here  was  pov 
erty  also,  but  yet  sufficient  acres  to  set  a  table  and 
pour  good  wine  and  to  make  the  horse  forget  the 
famine  road  behind  him.  Here  were  lounging  and 
siesta,  rest  for  body  and  mind,  sweet  "do  well  a 
very  little !"  Don  Fernando  would  have  kept  the 
guest  a  second  week  and  then  a  third. 

But  Ian  shook  his  head,  laughed,  embraced  him, 
promised  a  return  of  good  when  the  great  stream 
made  it  possible,  and  set  forth  upon  his  further 
travel.  The  horse  looked  sleek,  almost  fat.  The 
Scot's  jaded  wardrobe  was  cleaned,  mended,  re 
freshed.  Living  with  Don  Fernando  were  an  elder 
sister  and  an  ancient  cousin  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  big,  handsome  Don,  traveling  so  oddly. 
These  had  set  hand-maidens  to  work,  with  the  re 
sult  that  Ian  felt  himself  spruce  as  a  newly  opened 
pink.  And  Don  Fernando  gave  him  a  traveling- 
cloak — very  fine — a  last  year's  gift,  it  seemed,  from 
a  grandee  he  had  obliged.  Cold  weather  was  ap 
proaching  and  its  warmth  would  be  grateful.  lan's 
great  need  was  for  money  in  purse.  These  new 
friends  had  so  little  of  that  that  he  chose  not  to* 
ask  for  a  loan.  After  all,  he  could  sell  the  cloak! 

The  day  was  fine,  the  country  mounting  as  it 
were  by  stairs  toward  the  mountains.  Before  him 
climbed  a  string  of  pack-mules.  The  merchant 
owning  them  and  their  lading  traveled  with  a  guard 
of  stout  young  men.  For  some  hours  Ian  had  the 
merchant  for  companion  and  heard  much  of  the 
woes  of  the  region  and  the  times,  the  miseries  of 
travel,  the  cursed  inns,  bandits  licensed  and  un 
licensed,  craft,  violence,  and  robbery!  The  mer- 

250 


FOES 

chant  bewailed  all  life  and  kept  a  hawk  eye  upon 
his  treasure  on  the  Spanish  road.  At  last  he  and 
his  guard,  his  mules  and  rnuleteers,  turned  aside 
into  a  skirting  way  that  would  bring  him  to  a  town 
visible  at  no  great  distance.  Left  alone,  Ian  viewed 
from  a  hilltop  the  roofs  of  this  place,  with  a  tower 
or  two  starting  up  like  warning  fingers.  But  his 
road  led  on  through  a  mountain  pass. 

The  earth  itself  seemed  to  be  climbing.  The 
mountain  shapes,  little  and  big,  gathered  in  herds. 
Cliffs,  ravines,  the  hoarse  song  of  water,  the  faces 
of  few  human  folk,  and  on  these  written  "Mountains, 
mountains!  Live  as  we  can!  Catch  who  catch 
can!"  After  a  time  the  road  was  deprived  of  even 
these  faces.  The  Scot  thought  of  home  mountains. 
He  thought  of  the  Highlands.  Above  him  and  at 
some  distance  to  the  right  appeared  a  distribution 
of  cliffs  that  reminded  him  of  that  hiding-place 
after  Culloden.  He  looked  to  see  the  birchwood, 
the  wheeling  eagle.  The  sun  was  at  noon.  Riding 
in  a  solitude,  he  almost  dozed  in  the  warm  light. 
The  Highlands  and  the  eagle  wheeling  above  the 
crag.  .  .  .  Black  Hill  and  Glenfernie  and  White  Farm 
and  Alexander.  .  .  .  Life  generally,  and  all  the  funny 
little  figures  running  full  tilt,  one  against  another. . .  . 

His  horse  sprang  violently  aside,  then  stood  trem 
bling.  Forms,  some  ragged,  some  attired  with  a  vio 
lent  picturesqueness,  had  started  from  without  a 
fissure  in  the  wood  and  from  behind  a  huge  wayside 
rock.  Ian  knew  them  at  a  glance  for  those  brigands 
of  whom  he  had  heard  mention  and  warning  enough. 
Don  Fernando  had  once  described  their  practices. 

Resistance  was  idle.  He  chose  instead  a  genial 

251 


FOES 

patience  for  his  tower,  and  within  it  keen  wits  to 
keep  watch.  With  his  horse  he  was  taken  by  the 
fierce,  bedizened  dozen  up  a  gorge  to  so  complete 
and  secure  a  robber  hold  that  Nature,  when  she 
made  it,  must  have  been  in  robber  mood.  Here 
were  found  yet  others  of  the  band,  with  a  bedecked 
and  mustached  chief.  He  was  aware  that  property, 
not  life,  answered  to  their  desires.  His  horse,  his 
fine  cloak,  his  weapons,  the  small  mail  and  its  con 
tents,  with  any  article  of  his  actual  wearing  they 
might  fancy,  and  the  little,  little,  little  money  within 
his  purse — all  would  be  taken.  All  in  the  luck! 
To-day  to  thee,  to-morrow  to  me.  What  puzzled 
him  was  that  evidently  more  was  expected. 

When  they  condescended  to  direct  speech  he 
could  understand  their  language  well  enough.  Nor 
did  they  indulge  in  over-brutal  handling;  they 
kept  a  measure  and  reminded  him  sufficiently  of  old 
England's  own  highwaymen.  Of  course,  like  old 
England's  own,  they  would  become  atrocious  if  they 
thought  that  circumstances  indicated  it.  But  they 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  be 
murderous  or  tormenting.  The  only  sensible  course 
was  to  take  things  good-naturedly  and  as  all  in  the 
song!  The  worst  that  might  happen  would  be  that 
he  must  proceed  to  France  afoot,  without  a  penny, 
lacking  weapons,  Don  Fernando's  cloak — all  things, 
in  short,  but  the  bare  clothing  he  stood  in.  To  make 
loss  as  small  as  possible  there  were  in  order  suavity, 
coolness,  even  gaiety! 

And  still  appeared  the  perplexing  something  he 
could  not  resolve.  The  over-fine  cloak,  the  horse 
now  in  good  condition,  might  have  something  to 

252 


FOES 

do  with  it,  contrasting  as  they  certainly  did  with 
the  purse  in  the  last  stages  of  emaciation.  And 
there  seemed  a  studying  of  his  general  appearance, 
of  his  features,  even.  Two  men  in  especial  ap 
peared  detailed  to  do  this.  At  last  his  ear  caught 
the  word  "ransom." 

Now  there  was  nobody  in  Spain  knowing  enough 
or  caring  enough  of  or  for  Ian  Rullock  to  entertain 
the  idea  of  parting  with  gold  pieces  in  order  to  save 
his  life.  Don  Fernando  might  be  glad  to  see  him 
live,  but  certainly  had  not  the  gold  pieces!  More 
over,  it  presently  leaked  fantastically  out  that^the 
bandits  expected  a  large  ransom.  He  began  to  sus 
pect  a  mistake  in  identity.  That  assumption,  in 
creasing  in  weight,  became  certainty.  They  looked 
him  all  around,  they  compared  notes,  they  regarded 
the  fine  cloak,  the  refreshed  steed.  "English,  senor, 
English?" 

"Scots.  You  do  not  understand  that?  Cousin 
to  English." 

"English.  We  had  word  of  your  traveling — with 
plenty  of  gold." 

"It  is  a  world  of  mistakes.  I  travel,  but  I  have 
no  gold." 

"It  is  a  usual  lack  of  memory  of  the  truth.  We 
find  it  often.  You  are  traveling  with  escort — with 
another  of  your  nation,  your  brother,  we  suppose. 
There  are  servants.  You  are  rich.  For  some  great 
freak  you  leave  all  in  the  town  down  there  and  ride 
on  alone.  Foreigners  often  act  like  madmen. 
Perhaps  you  meant  to  return  to  the  town.  Perhaps 
to  wait  for  them  in  the  inn  below  the  pass.  You 
have  not  gold  in  your  purse  because  there  is  bounti- 

253 


FOES 

ful  gold  just  behind  you.  Why  hurt  the  beautiful 
truth?  Sancho  and  Pedro  here  were  in  the  inn- 
yard  last  night." 

Sancho's  hoarse  voice  emerged  from  the  generality. 
"It  was  dusk,  but  we  saw  you  plainly  enough,  we 
are  sure,  senor!  In  your  fine  cloak,  speaking  Eng 
lish,  discussing  with  a  big  tall  man  who  rode  in 
with  you  and  sat  down  to  supper  with  you  and  was 
of  your  rank  and  evidently,  we  think,  your  brother 
or  close  kinsman!" 

The  chief  nodded.  "It  is  to  him  that  we  apply 
for  your  ransom.  You,  sefior,  shall  write  the  let 
ter,  and  Sancho  and  Pedro  shall  carry  it  down.  It 
will  be  placed,  without  danger  to  us,  in  your  brother's 
hand.  We  have  our  ways.  .  .  .  Then,  in  turn,  your 
brother  shall  ride  forth,  with  a  single  companion, 
from  the  town,  and  in  a  clear  space  that  we  shall  in 
dicate,  put  the  ransom  beneath  a  certain  rock,  turn 
ing  his  horse  at  once  and  returning  the  way  he  came. 
If  the  gold  is  put  there,  as  much  as  we  ask,  and 
according  to  our  conditions,  you  shall  go  free  as  a 
bird,  sefior,  though  perhaps  with  as  little  luggage 
as  a  bird.  If  we  do  not  receive  the  ransom — why, 
then,  the  life  of  a  bird  is  a  little  thing!  We  shall 
put  you  to  death." 

Ian  combated  the  profound  mistake.  What  was 
the  use?  They  did  not  expect  him  to  speak  truth, 
but  they  were  convinced  that  they  had  the  truth 
themselvefe.  At  last  it  came,  on  his  part,  to  a 
titanic  whimsicalness  of  assent.  At  least,  assenting, 
he  would  not  die  in  the  immediate  hour !  Stubbornly 
refuse  to  do  their  bidding,  and  his  thread  of  life 
would  be  cut  here  and  now. 

254 


FOES 

"All  events  grow  to  seem  unintelligible  masks! 
So  why  quarrel  with  one  mask  more?  Pen,  ink, 
and  paper?" 

All  were  produced. 

"I  must  write  in  English?" 

"That  is  understood,  sefior.  Now  this — and 
this — is  what  you  are  to  write  in  English." 

The  captive  made  a  correct  guess  that  not  more 
than  one  or  two  of  the  captors  could  read  Spanish, 
and  none  at  all  English. 

"Nevertheless,  sefior,"  said  the  chief,  "you  will 
know  that  if  the  gold  is  not  put  in  that  place  and 
after  that  fashion  that  I  tell  you,  we  shall  let  you 
die,  and  that  not  easily !  So  we  think  that  you  will 
not  make  English  mistakes  any  more  than  Spanish 
ones." 

Ian  nodded.  He  wrote  the  letter.  Sancho  put 
it  in  his  bosom  and  with  Pedro  disappeared  from 
the  dark  ravine.  The  situation  relaxed. 

"You  shall  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and  be  entirely  com 
fortable,  senor,  until  they  return.  If  they  bring 
the  gold  you  shall  pursue  your  road  at  your  pleasure 
even  with  a  piece  for  yourself,  for  we  are  nothing 
if  not  generous!  If  they  do  not  bring  it,  why,  then, 
of  course — !" 

Ian  had  long  been  bedfellow  of  wild  adventure. 
He  thought  that  he  knew  the  mood  in  which  it  was 
best  met.  The  mood  represented  the  grist  of  much 
subtle  effort,  comparing,  adjustment,  and  readjust 
ment.  He  cultivated  it  now.  The  banditti  admired 
courage,  coolness,  and  good  humor.  They  had  pro 
vision  of  food  and  wine,  the  sun  still  shone  warm. 
The  robber  hold  was  set  amid  dark,  gipsy  beauty. 

255 


FOES 

The  sun  went  down,  the  moon  came  up.  Ian, 
lying  upon  shaggy  skins,  knew  well  that  to-morrow- 
night — the  night  after  at  most — he  might  not  see 
the  sun  descend,  the  moon  arise.  What  then? 

Alexander  Jardine,  sailing  from  Scotland,  came 
to  Lisbon  a  month  after  Ian  Rullock.  He  knew  the 
name  of  the  ship  that  had  carried  the  fugitive,  and 
fortune  had  it  that  she  was  yet  in  this  port,  waiting 
for  her  return  lading.  He  found  the  captain, 
learned  that  Ian  had  transhipped  north  to  Vigo.  He 
followed.  At  Vigo  he  picked  up  a  further  trace  and 
began  again  to  follow.  He  followed  across  Spain  on 
the  long  road  to  France.  He  had  money,  horses, 
servants  when  he  needed  them,  skill  in  travel,  a  tire 
less,  great  frame,  a  consuming  purpose.  He  made 
mistakes  in  roads  and  rectified  them;  followed 
false  clues,  then  turned  squarely  from  them  and 
obtained  another  leading.  He  squandered  upon 
the  great  task  of  dogging  Ian,  facing  Ian,  showing 
Ian,  again  and  again  showing  Ian,  the  wrong  that 
had  been  done,  patience,  wealth  of  kinds,  a  discov 
ering  and  prophetic  imagination.  He  traveled  until 
at  last  here  was  the  earth,  climbing,  climbing,  and 
before  him  the  forested  slopes,  the  mountain  walls, 
the  great  partition  between  Spain  and  France.  An 
eagle  would  fly  over  it,  and  another  eagle  would  fol 
low  him,  for  a  nest  had  been  robbed  and  a  friendship 
destroyed! 

As  the  mountains  enlarged  he  fell  in  with  an  Eng 
lishman  of  rank,  a  nobleman  given  to  the  study  of 
literature  and  peoples,  amateur  on  the  way  to  con- 
noisseurship,  and  now  traveling  in  Spain.  He  jour 
neyed  en  prince  with  his  secretary  and  his  physician, 

256 


FOES 

servants  and  pack-horses,  and,  in  addition,  for  at 
least  this  part  of  Spain,  an  armed  escort  furnished 
by  the  authorities,  at  his  proper  cost,  against  just 
those  banditti  dangers  that  haunted  this  strip  of 
the  globe.  This  noble  found  in  the  laird  of  Glen- 
fernie  a  chance-met  gentleman  worth  cultivating 
and  detaining  at  his  side  as  long  as  might  be.  They 
had  been  together  three  or  four  days  when  at  eve 
they  came  to  the  largest  inn  of  a  town  set  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  mountain  pass  through  which 
ran  their  further  road.  Here,  at  dusk,  they  dis 
mounted  in  the  inn-yard,  about  them  a  staring, 
commenting  crowd.  Presently  they  went  to  supper 
together.  The  Englishman  meant  to  tarry  a  while 
in  this  town  to  observe  certain  antiquities.  He 
might  stay  a  week.  He  urged  that  his  companion 
of  the  last  few  days  stay  as  well.  But  the  laird  of 
Glenfernie  could  not. 

"I  have  an  errand,  you  see.  I  am  to  find  some 
thing.  I  must  go  on." 

"Two  days,  then.  You  say  yourself  that  your 
horses  need  rest." 

"They  do.  ...  I  will  stay  two  days." 

But  when  morning  came  the  secretary  and  the 
physician  alone  appeared  at  table.  The  nobleman 
lay  abed  with  a  touch  of  fever.  The  physician  re 
ported  that  the  trouble  was  slight — fatigue  and  a 
chill  taken.  A  couple  of  days'  repose  and  his  lord 
ship  would  be  himself  again. 

Glenfernie  walked  through  the  town.  Returning 
to  the  inn,  he  found  that  the  Englishman  had 
asked  for  him.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  talked  or 
listened,  sitting  by  the  nobleman's  bed.  Leaving 

257 


FOES 

him  at  last,  he  went  below  to  the  inn's  great  room, 
half  open  to  the  courtyard  and  all  the  come  and  go 
of  the  place.  It  was  late  afternoon.  He  sat  by  a 
table  placed  before  the  window,  and  the  river 
seemed  to  flow  by  him,  and  now  he  looked  at  it 
from  a  rocky  island,  and  now  he  looked  elsewhere. 
The  room  grew  ruddy  from  the  setting  sun.  An 
inn  servant  entered  and  busied  himself  about  the 
place.  After  him  came  an  aged  woman,  half  gipsy, 
it  seemed.  She  approached  the  seat  by  the  window. 
Her  worn  mantle,  her  wide  sleeve,  seemed  to  touch 
the  deep  stone  sill.  She  was  gone  like  a  moth. 
Glenfernie's  eye  discovered  a  folded  paper  lying  in 
the  window.  It  had  not  been  there  five  minutes 
earlier.  Now  it  lay  before  him  like  a  sudden  out 
growth  from  the  stone.  He  put  out  a  hand  and 
took  it  up.  The  woman  was  gone,  the  serving-man 
was  gone.  Outside  flowed  the  river.  Alexander  un 
folded  the  paper.  It  was  addressed  to  Senor  Nobody. 
It  lay  upon  his  knee,  and  it  was  lan's  hand.  His 
lips  moved,  his  vision  blurred.  Then  came  steadi 
ness  and  he  read. 

What  he  read  was  a  statement,  at  once  tense 
and  whimsical,  of  the  predicament  of  the  writer. 
The  latter,  recognizing  the  confusion  of  thought 
among  his  captors,  wrote  because  he  must,  but  did 
not  truly  expect  any  aid  from  Senor  Nobody.  The 
writing  would,  however,  prolong  life  for  two  days, 
perhaps  for  three.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time  ran 
som  were  not  forthcoming  death  would  forthcome. 
Release  would  follow  ransom.  But  Senor  Nobody 
truly  could  not  be  expected  to  take  interest !  Most 
conceivably  the  stranger's  lot  must  remain  the 

258 


FOES 

stranger's  lot.  In  that  case  pardon  for  the  an 
noyance!  If,  miraculously,  the  bearer  did  find 
Senor  Nobody — if  Senor  Nobody  read  this  letter — • 
if  strangers  were  not  strangers  to  Senor  Nobody — if 
gold  and  mercy  lay  alike  in  Senor  Nobody's  keeping 
— then  so  and  so  must  be  done.  Followed  three  or 
four  lines  of  explicit  directions.  Did  all  the  above 
come  about,  then  truly  would  the  undersigned,  liv 
ing,  and  pursuing  his  journey  into  France,  and 
making  return  to  Senor  Nobody  when  he  might, 
rest  the  latter's  slave!  Followed  the  signature, 
Ian  Rullock. 

Alexander  sat  by  the  window,  in  the  rocky  island, 
and  the  Spanish  river  flowed  by.  It  was  dusk. 
Then  came  lights,  and  the  English  secretary  and 
physician,  with  servants  to  lay  the  table  and  bring 
supper.  Glenfernie  ate  and  drank  with  the  two 
men.  His  lordship  was  reported  better,  would 
doubtless  be  up  to-morrow.  The  talk  fell  upon 
Greece,  to  which  country  the  nobleman  was,  in  the 
end,  bound.  Greek  art,  Greek  literature,  Greek 
myth.  Here  the  secretary  proved  scholar  and  en 
thusiast,  a  liker  especially  of  the  byways  of  myth. 
He  and  Alexander  voyaged  here  and  there  among 
them.  "And  you  remember,  too,"  said  the  secre 
tary,  "the  Cranes  of  Ibycus — " 

They  rose  at  last  from  table.  Secretary  and 
physician  must  return  to  their  patron.  "I  am 
going  to  hunt  bed  and  sleep,"  said  Glenfernie. 
"To-morrow,  if  his  lordship  is  recovered,  we'll  go 
see  that  church." 

In  the  rude,  small  bedchamber  he  found  his  Span 
ish  servant.  Presently  he  would  dismiss  him,  but 

259 


FOES 

first,  "Tell  me,  Gil,  of  the  banditti  in  these  moun 
tains." 

Gil  told.  The  foreigner  who  employed  him  asked 
questions,  referred  intelligently  from  answer  to 
answer,  and  at  last  had  in  hand  a  compact  body  of 
information.  He  bade  Gil  good  night.  Ways  of 
banditti  in  any  age  or  place  were  much  the  same! 

The  room  was  small,  with  a  rude  and  narrow  bed. 
There  was  a  window,  small,  too,  but  open  to  the 
night.  Pouring  through  this  there  entered  a  vagrant 
procession  of  sound,  with,  in  the  interstices,  a  silence 
that  had  its  own  voice.  As  the  night  deepened  the 
procession  thinned,  at  last  died  away. 

When  he  undressed  he  had  taken  the  letter  to 
Senor  Nobody  and  put  it  upon  the  table.  Now, 
lying  still  and  straight  upon  the  bed  in  the  dark 
room,  there  seemed  a  blacker  darkness  where  it  lay, 
four  feet  from  him,  a  little  above  the  level  of  his 
eyes.  There  it  was,  a  square,  a  cube,  of  Egyptian 
night,  hard,  fierce,  black,  impenetrable. 

For  a  long  time  he  kept  a  fixed  gaze  upon  it.  Be 
yond  and  above  it  glimmered  the  window.  The 
larger  square  at  last  drew  his  eyes.  He  lay  another 
long  while,  very  still,  with  the  window  before  him. 
Lying  so,  thought  at  last  grew  quiet,  hushed,  sub 
dued.  Very  quietly,  very  sweetly,  like  one  long 
gone,  loved  in  the  past,  returning  home,  there 
slipped  into  view,  borne  upon  the  stream  of  con 
sciousness,  an  old  mood  of  stillness,  repose,  dawn- 
light  by  which  the  underneath  of  things  was  seen. 
Once  it  had  come  not  infrequently,  then  blackness 
and  hardness  had  whelmed  it  and  it  came  no  more. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  the  feel  of  it. 

260 


FOES 

Presently  it  would  go.  ...  It  did  so,  finding  at  this 
time  a  climate  in  which  it  could  not  long  live.  But 
it  was  powerfully  a  modifier. . . .  Glenfernie,  dropping 
his  eyes  from  the  window,  found  the  square  that 
was  the  letter,  a  square  of  iron  gray. 

A  part  of  the  night  he  lay  still  upon  the  narrow 
lied,  a  part  he  spent  in  slow  walking  up  and  down  the 
narrow  room,  a  part  he  stood  motionless  by  the 
window.  The  dawn  was  faintly  in  the  sky  when 
at  last  he  took  from  beneath  the  pillow  his  purse 
and  a  belt  filled  with  gold  pieces  and  sat  down  to 
count  them  over  and  compare  the  total  with  the 
figures  upon  a  piece  of  paper.  This  done,  he  dressed, 
the  light  now  gray  around  him.  The  letter  to  Sefior 
Nobody  lay  yet  upon  the  table.  At  last,  dressed, 
he  took  it  up  and  put  it  in  the  purse  with  the  gold. 
Leaving  the  room,  he  waked  his  servant  where  he 
lay  and  gave  him  directions.  A  faint  yellow  light 
gleamed  in  the  lowest  east. 

He  waited  an  hour,  then  went  to  the  room  where 
slept  the  secretary  and  the  physician.  They  were 
both  up  and  dressing.  The  physician  had  been  to 
his  patron's  room.  "Yes,  his  lordship  was  better — 
was  awake — meant  after  a  while  to  rise."  Glen 
fernie  would  send  in  a  request.  Something  had  oc 
curred  which  made  him  very  desirous  to  see  his 
lordship.  If  he  might  have  a  few  minutes — ? 
The  secretary  agreed  to  make  the  inquiry,  went  and 
returned  with  the  desired  invitation.  Glenfernie 
followed  him  to  the  nobleman's  chamber  and  was 
greeted  with  geniality.  Seated  by  the  Englishman's 
bed,  he  made  his  explanation  and  request.  He  had 
so  much  gold  with  him — he  showed  the  contents 

261 


FOES 

of  the  belt  and  purse — and  he  had  funds  with  an 
agent  in  Paris  and  again  funds  in  Amsterdam. 
Here  were  letters  of  indication.  With  a  total  un 
expectedness  there  had  come  to  him  in  this  town 
a  call  that  he  could  not  ignore.  He  could  not  ex 
plain  the  nature  of  it,  but  a  man  of  honor  would  feel 
it  imperative.  But  it  would  take  nicely  all  his  gold 
and  so  many  pieces  besides.  He  asked  the  loan  of 
these,  together  with  an  additional  amount  sufficient 
to  bring  him  through  to  Paris.  Once  there  he  could 
make  repayment.  In  the  mean  time  his  personal 
note  and  word —  The  Englishman  made  no  trouble 
at  all. 

"I'll  take  your  countenance  and  bearing,  Mr. 
Jardine.  But  I'll  make  condition  that  we  do  travel 
?  together,  after  all,  as  far,  at  least,  as  Tours,  where 
I  mean  to  stop  awhile." 

"I  agree  to  that,"  said  Glenfernie. 

The  secretary  counted  out  for  him  the  needed 
gold.  In  the  narrow  room  in  which  he  had  slept 
he  put  this  with  his  own  in  a  bag.  He  put  with  it 
no  writing.  There  was  nothing  but  the  bare  gold. 
Carrying  it  with  him,  he  went  out  to  find  the  horses 
saddled  and  waiting.  With  Gil  behind  him,  he  went 
from  the  inn  and  out  of  the  town.  The  letter  to 
Senor  Nobody  had  given  explicit  enough  direction. 
Clear  of  all  buildings,  he  drew  rein  and  took  bearings., 
Here  was  the  stream,  the  stump  of  a  burned  mill, 
the  mountain-going  road,  narrower  and  rougher 
than  the  way  of  main  travel.  He  followed  this 
road;  the  horses  fell  into  a  plodding  deliberateness 
of  pace.  The  sunshine  streamed  warm  around,  but 
there  was  little  human  life  here  to  feel  its  rays. 

262 


FOES 

After  a  time  there  came  emergence  into  a  bare, 
houseless,  almost  treeless  plain  or  plateau.  The 
narrow,  little-traveled  road  went  on  upon  the  edge 
of  this,  but  a  bridle-path  led  into  and  across  the 
bareness.  Alexander  followed  it.  Before  him, 
across  the  waste,  sprang  cliffs  with  forest  at  their 
feet.  But  the  waste  was  wide,  and  in  the  sun 
they  showed  like  nothing  more  than  a  burnished, 
distant  wall.  His  path  would  turn  before  he  reached 
them.  The  plain's  name  might  have  been  Solitari 
ness.  It  lay  naked  of  anything  more  than  small 
scattered  stones  and  bushes.  There  upgrew  before 
him  the  tree  to  which  he  was  bound.  A  solitary, 
twisted  oak  it  shot  out  of  the  plain,  its  protruding 
roots  holding  stones  in  their  grasp.  Around  was 
shelterless  and  bare,  but  the  heightening  wall  of  cliff 
seemed  to  be  watching.  Alexander  rode  nearer, 
dismounted,  left  Gil  with  the  two  horses,  and,  the 
bag  of  gold  in  his  hand,  walked  to  the  tree.  Here 
was  the  stone  shaped  like  a  closed  hand.  He  put 
the  ransom  between  the  stone  fingers  and  the  stone 
palm.  There  was  no  word  with  it.  Senor  Nobody 
had  no  name.  He  turned  and  strode  back  to  the 
horses,  mounted,  and  with  Gil  rode  from  the  naked, 
sunny  plain. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

'"THE  Peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  lay  a  year  in  the 
A  future.  Yet  in  Paris,  under  certain  conditions 
and  auspices,  Scot  or  Englishman  might  dwell  in 
security  enough.  The  Jacobite  remnant,  foe  to  the 
British  government,  found  France  its  best  harbor. 
A  quietly  moving  Scots  laird,  not  Jacobite,  yet 
might  be  lumped  by  the  generality  with  those  for 
feited  Scots  gentlemen  who,  having  lost  all  in  a 
cause  urged  and  supported  by  France,  now,  without 
scruple,  took  from  King  Louis  a  pension  that  put 
food  in  their  mouths,  coats  on  their  backs,  roofs 
over  their  heads.  Alexander  Jardine,  knowing  the 
city,  finding  quiet  lodgings  in  a  quiet  street,  estab 
lished  himself  in  Paris.  It  was  winter  now,  cold, 
bright  weather. 

In  old  days  he  had  possessed  not  a  few  ac 
quaintances  in  this  city.  A  circle  of  thinkers, 
writers,  painters,  had  powerfully  attracted  him. 
Circumstances  brought  him  now  again  into  relation 
with  one  or  two  of  this  group.  He  did  not  seek 
them  as  formerly  he  had  done.  But  neither  could 
he  be  said  to  avoid  companionship  when  it  came 
his  way.  It  was  not  his  wish  to  become  singular 
or  solitary.  But  he  was  much  alone,  and  while  he 
waited  for  Ian  he  wandered  in  the  rich  Paris  of  old, 

264 


FOES 

packed  life.  Street  and  Seine-side  and  market  knew 
him;  he  stood  in  churches,  and  before  old  altar- 
pieces  smoked  by  candles.  Booksellers  remarked 
him.  Where  he  might  he  heard  music;  sometimes 
he  would  go  to  the  play.  He  carried  books  to  his 
lodging.  He  sat  late  at  night  over  volumes  new 
and  old.  The  lamp  burned  dim,  the  fire  sank; 
he  put  aside  reading  and  knowledge  gained  through 
reading,  and  sat,  sunk  deep  into  a  dim  desert  within 
himself;  at  last  got  to  bed  and  fell  to  sleep  and  to 
dreams  that  fatigued,  that  took  him  nowhere. 
When  the  next  day  was  here  he  wandered  again 
through  the  streets. 

One  of  his  old  acquaintances  he  saw  oftener  than 
he  did  others.  This  was  a  scholar,  a  writer,  an 
encyclopedist  of  to-morrow  who  liked  the  big  Scot 
and  to  be  in  his  company.  One  day,  chance  met, 
they  leaned  together  upon  the  parapet  of  a  bridge, 
and  watched  the  crossing  throng.  "  One's  own 
particles  in  transit!  Can  you  grasp  that,  Des- 
champs?" 

"I  have  heard  it  advanced.  No.  It  is  hard  to 
hold." 

"It  is  like  a  mighty  serpent.  You  would  think 
you  had  it  and  then  it  is  gone.  ...  If  one  could  hold 
it  it  would  transform  the  world." 

"Yes,  it  would.     At  what  are  you  staring?" 

"The  serpent  is  gone.  I  thought  that  I  saw  one 
whom  I  do  not  hold  to  be  art  and  part  with  me." 
He  gazed  after  a  crossing  horseman.  "No!  There 
was  merely  a  trick  of  him.  It  is  some  other." 

"The  man  for  whom  you  are  waiting?" 

"Yes." 
18  265 


FOES 

Deschamps  returned  to  the  subject  of  a  moment 
before.  "It  is  likely  that  language  bewrays  much 
more  than  we  think  it  does.  I  say  'the  man/ 
You  echo  it.  And  I  am  'man/  And  you  are  'man.' 
'Man' —  'Man'!  Every  instant  it  is  said.  Yet  the 
identity  that  we  state  we  never  assume!" 

"I  said  that  we  could  not  hold  the  serpent." 

Ten  days  afterward  he  did  see  Ian.  The  latter, 
after  a  slow  and  difficult  progress  through  France, 
came  afoot  into  Paris.  He  sought,  and  was  glad 
enough  to  find,  an  old  acquaintance  and  sometime 
fellow-conspirator — Warburton . 

"Blessed  friendship!"  he  said,  and  warmed  him 
self  by  Warburton 's  fire.  Something  within  him 
winced,  and  would,  if  it  could,  have  put  forward  a 
different  phrase. 

Warburton  poured  wine  for  him.  "Now  tell  your 
tale!  For  months  those  of  us  who  remained  in 
Paris  have  heard  nothing  but  Trojan  woes!" 

Ian  told.  Culloden  and  after — Edinburgh — Lis 
bon — Vigo — travel  in  Spain — Sefior  Nobody — 

"That  was  a  curious  adventure!  And  you  don't 
know  the  ransomer's  name?" 

"Not  I!     Senor  Nobody  he  rests." 

"Well,  and  after  that?" 

Ian  related  his  wanderings  from  the  Pyrenees  up 
to  Paris.  Scotland,  Spain,  and  France,  the  artist  in 
him  painted  pictures  for  Warburton — painted  with 
old  ableness  and  abandon,  and,  Warburton  thought, 
with  a  new  subtlety.  The  friend  hugged  his  knees 
and  enjoyed  it  like  a  well-done  play.  Here  was 
Rullock's  ancient  spirit,  grown  more  richly  appealing ! 
Trouble  at  least  had  not  downed  him.  Warburton, 

266 


FOES 

who  in  the  past  year  had  been  thrown  in  contact 
with  a  number  whom  it  had  downed,  and  who  had 
suffered  depression  thereby,  felt  gratitude  to  Ian 
Rullock  for  being  larger,  not  smaller,  than  usual. 

At  last,  the  fire  still  burning,  Ian  warmed  and  re 
freshed,  they  wheeled  from  retrospect  into  the  pres 
ent.  Warburton  revealed  how  thoroughly  shattered 
were  Stewart  hopes. 

"I  begin  to  see,  Rullock,  that  we've  simply  passed 
those  things  by.  We  can't  go  back  to  that  state 
of  mind  and  affairs." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  back." 

"I  like  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  hear  so  much 
whining  the  other  way!  Well,  as  a  movement  it's 
over.  .  .  .  And  the  dead  are  dead,  and  the  scarred 
and  impoverished  will  have  to  pick  themselves  up." 

' '  Quite  so.    Is  there  any  immediate  helping  hand  ?" 

"King  Louis  gives  a  pension.  It's  not  much,  but 
it  keeps  one  from  starving.  And  as  for  you,  I've  in 
keeping  a  packet  for  you  from  England.  It  reached 
me  through  Good  worth,  the  India  merchant.  I've 
a  notion  that  your  family  will  manage  to  put  in 
your  hand  some  annual  amount.  Of  course  your 
own  fortune  is  sequestered  and  you  can  return 
neither  to  England  nor  to  Scotland." 

"My  aunt  may  have  had  faith  that  I  was  living. 
She  would  do  all  that  she  could  to  help.  .  .  .  No,  I'll 
not  go  back." 

"Your  chance  would  lie  in  some  post  here.  Take 
up  old  acquaintances  where  they  have  power,  and 
recommend  yourself  to  new  ones  with  power. 
Great  ladies  in  especial,"  said  Warburton. 

"We  haven't  passed  that  by?" 
267 


FOES 

"Not  yet,  Rullock,  not  yet!" 

Ian  dreamed  over  the  fire.  At  last  he  stretched 
his  arms.  "Let  us  go  sleep,  Warburton!  I  have 
come  miles.  .  .  ." 

4 'Yes,  it  is  late.  Oh,  one  thing  more!  Alexander 
Jardine  is  in  Paris." 

"Alexander!" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  is  doing  here.  In  with 
the  writing,  studying  crew,  I  suppose.  I  came 
upon  him  by  accident,  near  the  Sorbonne.  He  did 
not  see  me  and  I  did  not  speak." 

"I'll  not  avoid  him!" 

"I  remember  your  telling  me  that  you  had  quar 
reled.  That  was  the  eve  of  your  leaving  Paris  in 
the  springtime,  before  the  Prince  went  to  Scotland. 
You  haven't  made  it  up?" 

"No.     I  suppose  we'll  never  make  it  up." 

"What  was  it  over?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that.  ...  It  had  a  double  thread. 
Did  he  come  to  Paris,  I  wonder,  because  he  guessed 
that  I  would  bring  up  here?"  He  rose  and  stood 
staring  down  into  the  fire.  "I  think  that  he  did 
so.  Well,  if  he  means  to  follow  me  through  the 
world,  let  him  follow!  And  now  no  more  to-night, 
Warburton!  I  want  sleep — sleep — sleep!" 

The  next  day  and  the  next  and  the  next  began 
a  new  French  life.  He  had  luck,  or  he  had  the 
large  momentum  of  a  personality  not  negligible,  an 
orb  covered  with  a  fine  network  of  enchanter's 
symbols.  The  packet  from  England  held  money, 
with  an  engagement  to  forward  a  like  sum  twice 
a  year.  It  was  not  a  great  sum,  but  such  as  it  was 
he  did  not  in  the  least  scorn  it.  It  had  come,  after 

268 


FOES 

all,  from  Archibald  Touris — but  Ian  knew  the  in 
fluence  behind  that. 

Warburton  presented  his  name  to  the  Minister 
who  dispensed  King  Louis's  fund  for  Scots  gentle 
men  concerned  in  the  late  attempt,  losers  of  all,  and 
now  destitute  in  France.  So  much  would  come  out 
of  that !  The  two  together  waited  upon  monseigneur 
in  whose  coach  they  had  once  crossed  the  Seine. 
He  had  blood  ties  with  Stewart  kings  of  yesterday, 
and  in  addition  to  that  evidenced  a  queer,  romantic 
fondness  for  lost  causes,  and  a  willingness  to  ferry 
across  rivers  those  who  had  been  engaged  in  them. 
Now  he  displayed  toward  the  Englishman  and  the 
Scot  a  kind  of  eery,  distant  graciousness.  Ah  yes! 
he  would  speak  here  and  there  of  Monsieur  Ian 
Rullock — he  would  speak  to  the  King.  If  there 
were  things  going  ces  messieurs  might  as  well  have 
some  good  of  them!  Out  of  old  acquaintances  in 
Paris  Ian  gathered  not  a  few  who  were  in  position 
to  further  new  fortunes.  Some  of  these  were  men 
and  some  were  women.  He  took  a  lodging,  neither 
so  good  nor  so  bad.  Warburton  found  him  a  ser 
vant.  He  obtained  fine  clothes,  necessary  working- 
garb  where  one  pushed  one's  fortune  among  fine 
folk.  The  more  uncertain  and  hazardous  looked  his 
fortunes  the  more  he  walked  and  spoke  as  though 
he  were  a  golden  favorite  of  the  woman  with  the 
wheel. 

All  this  moved  rapidly.  He  had  not  been  in  Paris 
a  week  ere  again,  as  many  times  before,  he  had  the 
stage  all  set  for  Success  to  walk  forth  upon  it !  But 
it  had  come  December — December — December,  and 
he  looked  forward  to  that  month's  passing. 

269 


FOES 

He  had  not  seen  Alexander.  Then,  in  the  middle 
of  the  month  he  found  himself  one  evening  in  a 
peacock  cluster  of  fine  folk,  at  the  theater — a  famous 
actress  to  be  viewed  in  a  comedy  grown  the  rage. 
The  play  was  nearly  over  when  he  saw  Alexander 
in  the  pit,  turned  from  the  stage,  gazing  steadily 
upon  him.  Ian  placed  himself  where  he  might 
still  see  him,  and  returned  the  gaze. 

Going  out  when  the  play  was  over,  the  two  met 
face  to  face  in  the  lighted  space  between  the  doors. 
Each  was  in  company  of  others — Ian  with  a  courtier, 
decked  and  somewhat  loudly  laughing  group,  Glen- 
fernie  with  a  painter  of  landscape,  Deschamps,  and 
an  Oriental,  member  of  some  mission  to  the  West. 
Meeting  so,  they  stopped  short.  Their  nostrils 
dilated,  there  seemed  to  come  a  stirring  over  their 
bodies.  Inwardly  they  felt  a  painful  constriction, 
a  contraction  to  something  hard,  intent,  and  fanged. 
This  was  the  more  strongly  felt  by  Alexander,  but 
Ian  felt  it,  too.  Did  Glenfernie  mean  to  dog  him 
through  life — think  that  he  would  be  let  to  do  so? 
Alone  in  a  forest,  very  far  back,  they  might,  at  this 
point,  have  flown  at  each  other's  throat.  But  they 
had  felled  many  forests  since  the  day  when  just 
that  was  possible.  .  .  .  The  thing  conventionally  in 
order  for  such  a  moment  as  the  present  was  to  act 
as  though  that  annihilation  which  each  wished  upon 
the  other  had  been  achieved.  All  that  they  had 
shared  since  the  day  when  first  they  met,  boys  on  a 
heath  in  Scotland,  should  be  instantaneously  blotted 
out.  Two  strangers,  jostled  face  to  face  in  a  play 
house,  should  turn  without  sign  that  there  had 
ever  been  that  heath.  So,  symbolically,  annihila- 

270 


FOES 

tion  might  be  secured!    For  a  moment  each  sought 
for  the  blank  eyes,  the  unmoved  stone  face. 

As  from  a  compartment  above  sifted  down  a  dry 
light  with  great  power  of  lighting.  It  came  into 
Alexander's  mind,  into  that,  too,  of  Ian.  .  .  .  How 
absurd  was  the  human  animal!  All  this  saying  the 
opposite  left  the  truth  intact.  They  were  not 
strangers,  each  was  quite  securely  seated  in  the 
other.  Self-annihilation — self-oblivion!  .  .  .  All 
these  farcical  high  horses!  .  .  .  Men  went  to  see 
comedies  and  did  not  see  their  own  comedy. 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  and  Ian  Rullock  each  very 
slightly  and  coldly  acknowledged  the  other's  pres 
ence.  No  words  passed.  But  the  slow  amenity  of 
life  bent  by  a  fraction  the  head  of  each,  just  parted 
the  lips  of  each.  Then  Alexander  turned  with  an 
abrupt  movement  of  his  great  body  and  with  his 
companions  was  swallowed  by  the  crowd. 

On  his  bed  that  night,  lying  straight  with  his 
hands  upon  his  breast,  he  had  for  the  space  of  one 
deep  breath  an  overmastering  sense  of  the  suave- 
ness  of  reality.  Crudity,  angularity,  harshness, 
seemed  to  vanish,  to  dissolve.  He  knew  dry  beds 
of  ancient  torrents  that  were  a  long  and  somewhat 
wide  wilderness  of  mere  broken  rock,  stone  piece 
by  stone  piece,  and  only  the  more  jagged  edges  lost 
and  only  the  surface  worn  by  the  action,  through 
ages,  of  water.  It  was  as  though  such  a  bed  grew 
beneath  his  eyes  meadow  smooth — smoother  than 
that — smooth  as  air,  air  that  lost  nothing  by  yield 
ing — smooth  as  ether  that,  yielding  all,  yielded 
nothing.  .  .  .  The  moment  went,  but  left  its  memory. 
As  the  moment  was  large  so  was  its  memory. 

271 


FOES 

He  fought  against  it  with  tribes  of  memories, 
lower  and  dwarfish,  but  myriads  strong.  The  bells 
from  some  convent  rang,  the  December  stars  blazed 
beyond  his  window,  he  put  out  his  arms  to  the 
December  cold. 

Ian,  despite  that  moment  in  the  playhouse,  looked 
for  the  arrival  of  a  second  challenge  from  Glenfernie. 
For  an  instant  it  might  be  that  they  had  seen  that 
things  couldn't  be  so  separate,  after  all !  That  there 
was,  as  it  were,  some  universal  cement.  But  in 
stants  passed,  and,  indubitably,  the  world  was  a 
broken  field!  Enmity  still  existed,  full-veined.  It 
would  be  like  this  Alexander,  who  had  overshot 
another  Alexander,  to  send  challenge  after  challenge, 
never  to  rest  satisfied  with  one  crossing  of  weapons, 
with  blood  drawn  once!  Or  if  there  was  no  chal 
lenge,  no  formal  duel,  still  there  would  be  duel. 
He  would  pursue — he  would  cry,  "Turn!" — there 
would  be  perpetuity  of  encounter.  To  the  world's 
end  there  was  to  be  the  face  of  menace,  of  old  re 
proach — the  arrows  dropped  of  pain  of  many  sorts. 
"In  short,  vengeance,"  said  Ian.  "Vengeance  deep 
as  China!  When  he  used  to  deny  himself  revenge 
in  small  things  it  was  all  piling  up  for  this ! .  .  .  What 
I  did  slipped  the  leash  for  him!  Well,  aren't  we 
evened?" 

What  he  looked  for  came,  brought  by  Deschamps. 
The  two  met  in  a  field  outside  Paris,  with  seconds, 
with  all  the  conventionally  correct  paraphernalia. 
The  setting  differed  from  that  of  their  lonely  fight 
on  a  Highland  mountain-side.  But  again  Ian,  still 
the  better  swordsman,  wounded  Alexander.  This 
time  he  gave — willed  perhaps  to  give — a  slight  hurt. 

272 


FOES 

"That  is  nothing!"  said  Glenfernie.  "Continue—0 
But  the  seconds,  coming  between  them,  would  not 
have  it  so.  It  was  understood  that  their  principals 
had  met  before,  and  upon  the  same  count.  Blood 
had  been  drawn.  It  was  France — and  mere  ugly 
tooth-and-claw  business  not  in  favor.  Blood  had 
flowed — now  part! 

"'Must*  drives  then  to-day,"  said  Alexander. 
"But  it  is  December  still,  Ian  Rullock!" 

"Turn  the  world  so,  if  you  will,  Glenfernie!" 
answered  the  other.  "And  yet  there  is  June  some 
where!" 

They  left  the  field.  Alexander,  going  home  in  a 
hired  coach  with  Deschamps,  sat  in  silence,  looking 
out  of  the  window.  His  arm  was  bandaged  and 
held  in  a  sling. 

"They  breed  determined  foes  in  Scotland,"  said 
Deschamps. 

"That  Scotland  is  in  me,"  Glenfernie  answered. 
"That  Scotland  and  that  December." 

Three  days  later  he  wandered  alone  in  Paris, 
came  at  last  to  old  stone  steps  leading  down  to  the 
river,  in  an  unpopulous  quarter.  A  few  boats  lay 
fastened  to  piles,  but  the  landing-place  hung  de 
serted  in  the  winter  sunlight.  There  lacked  not  a 
week  of  Christmas.  But  the  season  had  been  mild. 
To-day  was  not  cold,  and  stiller  than  still.  Glen 
fernie,  his  cloak  about  him,  sat  upon  the  river  steps 
and  watched  the  stream.  It  went  by,  and  still  it 
stood  there  before  him.  It  came  from  afar,  and  it 
went  to  afar,  and  still  it  shone  where  his  hand 
might  touch  it.  It  turned  like  a  wheel,  from  the 
gulf  to  the  height  and  around  again.  He  followed 

273 


FOES 

its  round — ocean  and  climbing  vapor,  cloud,  rain, 
and  far  mountain  springs,  descent  and  the  mother 
sea.  The  mind,  expanding,  ceased  to  examine 
radius  by  radius,  but  held  the  whole  wheel.  Alex 
ander  sat  in  inner  quiet,  forgetting  December. 

Turning  from  that  contemplation,  he  yet  re 
mained  still,  looking  now  at  the  sunshine  on  the 
steps.  .  .  .  There  seemed  to  reach  him,  within  and 
from  within,  rays  of  color  and  fragrance,  the  soul  of 
spice  pinks,  marigolds,  and  pansies.  .  .  .  Then, 
within  and  from  within,  Elspeth  was  with  him. 

Dead !    She  was  not  dead.  ...  Of  all  idle  words —  I 

It  was  not  as  a  shade — it  was  not  as  a  memory, 
or  not  as  the  poor  things  that  were  called  memory! 
But  she  came  in  the  authority  and  integrity  of  her 
self,  that  was  also,  most  dearly,  most  marvelously, 
himself  as  well — permeative,  penetrative,  real,  a 
subtle  breath  named  Elspeth!  So  subtle,  so  wide 
and  deep,  elastic,  universal,  with  no  horizons  that 
he  could  see.  .  .  .  To  and  fro  played  the  tides  of 
knowledge. 

Elspeth  all  along — sunshines  and  shadows — El 
speth  a  wide,  living  life — not  crushed  into  the  two 
moments  upon  which  he  had  brooded — not  the 
momentary  Elspeth  who  had  walked  the  glen  with 
him,  not  the  momentary  Elspeth  lifted  from  the 
Kelpie's  Pool,  borne  in  his  arms,  cold,  rigid,  drowned, 
a  long,  long  way!  But  Elspeth,  integral,  vibrant, 
living — Elspeth  of  centillions  of  moments — Elspeth 
a  beautiful  power  moving  strongly  in  abundant 
space.  .  .  . 

His  form  stayed  moveless  upon  the  river  steps 
while  the  wave  of  realization  played. 

274 


FOES 

The  experience  linked  itself  with  that  of  the 
other  night  when  the  stony  bed  of  existence,  broken, 
harsh,  irregular,  had  suddenly  dissolved  into  con 
nections  myriad  wide,  deep,  and  fine.  ...  He  had 
prated  with  philosophers  of  oneness.  Then  what 
he  had  prated  of  had  been  true !  There  was  a  great 
difference  between  talking  of  and  touching  truth.  .  .  . 

But  he  could  not  hold  the  touch.  The  wings 
flagged,  he  fell  into  the  jungle  of  words.  His  body 
turned  upon  the  steps.  The  caves  and  dens  of  his 
being  began  to  echo  with  cries  and  counter-cries. 

Hurt?  Had  she  not  been  hurt  at  all?  But  she 
was  hurt — poisoned,  ruined,  drawn  to  death!  Had 
she  long  and  wide  and  living  power  to  heal  her  own 
harm?  Still  was  it  not  there — he  would  have  it 
there! 

Ian  Rullock!  With  a  long,  inward,  violent  recoil 
Alexander  shrank  into  the  old  caves  of  himself.  All 
the  magic  web  of  color  and  fragrance  dwindled, 
came  to  be  a  willow  basket  filled  with  White  Farm 
flowers  placed  upon  the  kirkyard  steps. 

Ian  Rullock  had  stolen  her — Ian,  not  Alexander, 
had  been  her  lover,  kissed  her,  clasped  her,  there  in 
the  glen!  Ian,  the  Judas  of  friendship — thief  of  a 
comrade's  bliss — cheat,  murderer,  mocker,  and  in- 
jurer ! 

The  wave  of  oneness  fled. 

Glenfernie,  looking  like  the  old  laird  his  father, 
his  cloak  wrapped  around  him,  feeling  the  Decem 
ber  air,  left  the  river  steps,  wandered  away  through 
Paris. 

But  when  he  was  alone  with  the  night  he  tried  to 
recover  the  wave.  It  had  been  so  wonderful.  Even 

275 


FOES 

the  faint,  faint  echo,  the  ghostly  afterglow,  were  ex 
quisite;  were  worth  more  than  anything  he  yet  had 
owned.  He  tried  to  recover  the  earlier  part  of  the 
wave,  separating  it  from  the  later  flood  that  had 
seemed  critical  of  righteous  wrath,  just  punishment. 
But  it  would  not  come  back  on  those  terms.  .  .  . 
But  yet  he  wanted  it,  wanted  it,  longed  for  it  even 
while  he  warred  against  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

was  one  December.  The  year  made  twelve 
A  steps  and  here  was  December  again.  With  it 
came  to  Ian  a  proffer  from  the  nobleman  of  the 
coach  across  the  Seine.  Some  ancient  business, 
whether  of  soul  or  sense,  carried  him  to  Rome. 
Monsieur  Ian  Rullock — said  to  be  for  the  moment 
banished  from  a  certain  paradise — might  find  it  in 
his  interest  to  come  with  him — say  as  traveling 
companion.  Ian  found  it  so.  Monseigneur  was 
starting  at  once.  Good!  let  us  start. 

Ian  despatched  his  servant  to  the  lodging  known 
to  be  occupied  by  the  laird  of  Glenfernie.  The  man 
had  a  note  to  deliver.  Alexander  took  it  and  read: 

GLENFERNIE, — I  am  quitting  Paris  with  the  Due  de > 

for  Rome. — IAN  RULLOCK. 

The  man  gone,  Alexander  put  fire  to  the  missive 
and  burned  it,  after  which  he  walked  up  and  down, 
up  and  down  the  wide,  bare  room.  When  some 
time  had  passed  he  came  back  to  chair  and  table, 
inkwell  and  pen,  and  a  half -written  letter.  The 
quill  drove  on: 

.  .  .  None  could  do  better  by  the  estate  than  you — not  I  nor 
any  other.  So  I  beg  of  you  to  stay,  dear  Strickland,  who  have 
stayed  by  us  so  long! 

277 


FOES 

There  followed  a  page  of  business  detail — inquiries — 
expressed  wishes.  Glenfernie  paused.  Before  him, 
propped  against  a  volume  of  old  lore,  stood  a  small 
picture — Orestes  asleep  in  the  grove  of  the  Furies. 
He  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  regarding  it.  He 
had  found  it  and  purchased  it  months  before,  and 
still  he  studied  it.  His  eyes  fell  to  the  page;  he 
wrote  on: 

You  ask  no  questions,  and  yet  I  know  that  you  question. 
Well,  I  will  tell  you — knowing  that  you  will  strain  out  and  give 
to  others  only  what  should  be  given.  ...  He  has  been,  and  I 
have  been,  in  Paris  a  year.  He  and  I  have  fought  three  times 
— fought,  that  is,  as  men  call  righting.  Once  upon  that  moun 
tain-side  at  home,  twice  here.  Now  he  is  going — and  I  am 
going — to  Rome.  Shall  I  fight  him  again — with  metal  digged 
from  the  earth,  fashioned  and  sharpened  in  some  red-lighted 
shop  of  the  earth?  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall — rather,  I  think 
that  I  shall  not. ...  Is  there  ever  a  place  where  a  kind  of  growth 
does  not  go  on?  There  is  a  moonrise  in  me  that  tells  me  that 
that  fighting  is  to  be  scorned.  But  what  shall  I  do,  seein.7  that  he 
is  my  foe?  .  .  .  Ah,  I  do  not  know — save  haunt  him,  save  bring 
and  bring  again  my  inner  man  to  clinch  and  wrestle  with  and 
throw,  if  may  be,  his  inner  man.  And  to  see  that  he  knows 
that  I  do  this — that  it  tells  back  upon  him — through  and 
through  tells  back!  ...  It  has  been  a  strange  year.  Now  and 
then  I  am  aware  of  curious  far  tides,  effects  from  some  giant 
orb  of  being.  But  I  go  on.  ...  For  my  daily  life  in  Paris — here 
it  is,  your  open  page!  .  .  .  You  see,  I  still  seek  knowledge,  for  all 
your  gibe  that  I  sought  darkness.  And  now,  as  I  go  to  Rome — 

He  wrote  on,  changing  now  to  details  as  to  com 
munication,  placing  of  moneys,  and  such  matters. 
At  length  came  references  to  the  last  home  news, 
expressions  of  trust  and  affection.  He  signed  his 
name,  folded,  superscribed  and  sealed  the  letter, 
then  sat  on,  studying  the  picture  before  him. 

278 


FOES 

Monseigneur,  with  gold,  with  fine  horses,  with  an 
eery,  swooping, steadiness  of  direction,  journeyed  fast. 
He  and  his  traveling  companion  reached  Rome  early 
in  February.  There  was  a  villa,  there  were  attend 
ants,  there  was  the  Frenchman's  especial  circle, 
set  with  bizarre  jewels,  princes  of  the  Church, 
Italian  nobles  of  his  acquaintance,  exiles,  a  charlatan 
of  immense  note,  certain  ladies.  He  only  asked  of 
his  guest,  Monsieur  Rullock,  that  he  help  him  to 
entertain  the  whole  chaplet,  giving  to  his  residence 
in  Rome  a  certain  splendid  virility. 

February  showed  skies  like  sapphire.  There 
drew  on  carnival  week.  Masks  and  a  wildness  of 
riot — childish,  too — • 

Ian  leaned  against  the  broken  base  of  an  ancient 
statue,  set  in  the  villa  garden,  at  a  point  that  gave 
a  famous  view.  Around,  the  almond-trees  were  in 
bloom.  The  marble  Diana  had  gazed  hence  for  so 
many  years,  had  seen  so  much  that  might  make  the 
dewy  greenwood  forgotten!  It  was  mid-afternoon 
and  flooding  light.  Here  Rome  basked,  half-asleep 
in  a  dream  of  sense;  here  the  ant  city  worked  and 
worked. 

Ian  stood  between  tides,  behind  him  a  forenoon, 
before  him  an  evening  of  carnival  participation. 
In  the  morning  he  had  been  with  a  stream  of  per 
sons;  presently,  with  the  declining  sun,  would  be 
with  another.  Here  was  an  hour  or  two  of  pause, 
time  of  day  for  rest  with  half-closed  eyes.  He  looked 
over  the  pale  rose  wave  of  the  almonds,  he  saw 
Peter's  dome  and  St.  Angelo.  He  was  conscious  of 
a  fatigue  of  his  powers,  a  melancholy  that  they  gave 
him  no  more  than  they  did.  "How  it  is  all  tinsel 

279 


FOES 

and  falsetto ! .  .  .  I  want  a  clean,  cold,  searching  wave 
— desert  and  night — not  life  all  choked  with  wax 
tapers  and  harlequins!  I  want  something.  ...  I 
don't  know  what  I  want.  I  only  know  I  haven't 
got  it!" 

His  arm  moved  upon  the  base  of  the  statue.  He 
looked  up  at  the  white  form  with  the  arrow  in  its 
hands.  "Self -containment.  .  .  .  What,  goddess, 
you  would  call  chastity  all  around?  .  .  .  All  the 
spilled  self  somehow  centered.  But  just  that  is 
difficult — difficult — more  difficult  than  anything 
Hercules  attempted.  Oh  me!"  He  sat  down  be 
neath  the  cypress  that  stood  behind  the  statue 
and  rested  his  head  within  his  hands.  From  Rome, 
on  all  sides,  broke  into  the  still  light  trumpets  and 
bell-ringing,  pipes  and  drums,  shout  and  singing. 
It  sounded  like  a  thousand  giant  cicadae.  A  group 
of  masks  went  through  the  garden,  by  the  Diana 
figure.  They  threw  pine  cones  and  confetti  at  the 
gold-brown  foreigner  seated  there.  One  wore  an 
ass's  head,  another  was  dressed  as  a  demon  with 
horns  and  tail,  a  third  rolled  as  Bacchus,  a  fourth, 
fifth,  and  sixth  were  his  maenads.  All  went  wildly 
by,  the  clamor  of  the  city  swelled. 

This  was  first  day  of  carnival.  Succeeding  days, 
succeeding  nights,  mounted  each  a  stage  to  heights 
of  folly.  Starred  all  through  was  innocent  merry 
making,  license  held  in  leash.  But  the  gross,  the 
whirling,  and  the  sinister  elements  came  continu 
ously  and  more  strongly  into  play.  Measured  sound 
grew  racket,  camaraderie  turned  into  impudence. 
Came  at  last  pandemonium.  All  without  Rome — • 
Campagna  and  mountains — were  in  Rome.  Peasant 

280 


FOES 

men  and  women  slept,  when  they  slept,  in  and  be 
neath  carts  and  huge  wine-wagons  camped  and 
parked  in  stone  forests  of  imperial  ruins.  Artisan, 
mechanic,  and  merchant  Rome  lightened  toil  and 
went  upon  the  hunt  for  pleasure,  dropping  ser 
vility  in  the  first  ditch.  Foreigners,  artists,  men 
from  everywhere,  roved,  gazed,  and  listened,  shared. 
The  great  made  displays,  some  with  beauty,  some  of 
a  perverted  and  monstrous  taste.  The  lords  of  the 
Church  nodded,  looked  sleepily  or  alertly  benevo 
lent.  At  times  all  alike  turned  mere  populace. 
Courtesans  thronged,  the  robber  and  the  assassin 
found  their  prey.  All  men  and  women  who  might 
entertain,  ever  so  coarsely,  ever  so  poorly,  were 
here  at  market.  Mummers  and  players,  musi 
cians,  dancers,  jugglers,  gipsies,  and  fortune-tellers 
floated  thick  as  May-flies.  Voices,  voices,  and  every 
musical  instrument — but  all  set  in  a  certain  range, 
and  that  not  the  deep  nor  the  sweet.  So  it  seemed, 
and  yet,  doubtless,  by  searching  might  have  been 
found  the  deep  and  the  sweet.  Certainly  the  air  of 
heaven  was  sweet,  and  it  went  in  and  between. 

All  who  might  or  who  chose  went  masked.  So 
few  did  not  choose  that  street  and  piazza  seemed 
filled  with  all  orders  of  being  and  moments  of  time. 
Terrible,  grotesque,  fantastic,  pleasing,  went  the 
rout,  and  now  the  hugest  crowd  was  here  and  now 
it  was  there,  and  now  there  were  moments  of  even 
diffusion.  At  night  the  lights  were  in  multitude, 
and  in  multitude  the  flaring  and  strange  decorations. 
Day  and  night  swung  processions,  stood  spectacles, 
huge  symbolic  movements  and  attitudes,  grown  ob 
scure  and  molded  to  the  letter,  now  mere  stage 
19  281 


FOES 

effects.  Day  by  day  through  carnival  week  the 
noise  increased,  restraint  lessened. 

At  times  Ian  was  in  company  with  monseigneur 
and  those  who  came  to  the  villa;  at  times  he  sought 
or  was  sought  by  others  that  he  knew  in  Rome, 
fared  into  carnival  with  them.  Much  more  rarely 
he  dipped  into  the  swirl  alone. 

The  saturnalia  drew  toward  its  close.  Ash 
Wednesday,  like  a  great  gray-sailed  ship,  was  seen 
coming  large  into  port.  The  noise  grew  wild,  license 
general.  All  available  oil  must  be  poured  into  the 
fire  of  the  last  day  of  pleasures.  Ian  was  to  have 
been  with  monseigneur's  party  gathered  to  view  a 
pageant  lit  by  torches  of  wax,  then  to  drink  wine, 
then,  in  choice  masks,  to  break  in  upon  a  dance  of 
nymphs,  whirl  away  with  black  or  brown  eyes.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  program,  but  at  the  last  he  evaded 
it,  slipped  from  the  villa,  chose  solitary  going. 
Why,  he  did  not  know,  save  that  he  felt  aching 
satiety. 

Here  in  the  streets  were  half-lights,  afterglow  from 
the  sunken  sun  and  smoky  torches.  The  latter  in 
creased  in  number,  the  oil-lamps,  great  and  small, 
were  lit,  the  tapers  of  various  qualities  and  thick 
nesses.  Where  there  were  open  spaces  vast  heaps 
of  seasoned  wood  now  flaming  caused  processions  of 
light  and  shadow  among  ruins,  against  old  triumphal 
arches,  against  churches  and  dwellings  old,  half- 
old,  and  new,  lived  in,  chanted  in  still,  intact  and 
usable.  Above  was  star-sown  night,  but  Rome  lay 
under  a  kobold  roof  of  her  own  lighting.  Noise  held 
grating  sway,  mere  restless  motion  enthroned  with 
her.  Worlds  of  drunken  grasshoppers  in  endless 

282 


FOES 

scorched  plains!    The  masks  seemed  now  demoniac, 
less  beauty  than  ugliness. 

Ian  found  himself  on  the  Quirinal,  in  the  great 
ragged  space  dominated  by  the  Colossi.  Here 
burned  a  bonfire  huge  enough  to  make  Plutonian 
day,  and  here  upon  the  fringes  of  that  light  he  en 
countered  a  carnival  brawl,  and  became  presently 
involved  in  it.  He  wore  a  domino  striped  black  and 
silver,  and  a  small  black  mask,  a  black  hat  with 
wide  brim  and  a  long,  curling  silver  feather.  He 
was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  noticeable.  .  .  .  The  quar 
rel  had  started  among  unmasked  peasants,  then  had 
swooped  in  a  numerous  band  dressed  as  ravens. 
Light-fingered  gentry,  inconspicuously  clad,  aided  in 
provoking  misunderstanding  that  should  shake  for 
them  the  orchard  trees.  A  company  of  wine-bibbers 
with  monstrous,  leering  masks,  staggering  from  a 
side-street ,  fell  into  the  whirlpool .  With  vociferation 
and  blows  the  whole  pulled  here  and  there,  the 
original  cause  of  the  falling  out  buried  now  in  a  host 
of  new  causes.  Ian,  caught  in  an  eddy,  turned  to 
make  way  out  of  it.  A  peasant  woman,  there  with 
a  group  from  some  rock  village,  received  a  chance 
buffet,  so  heavy  that  she  cried  out,  staggered,  then, 
pushed  against  in  the  m616e,  fell  upon  the  earth. 
The  raven  crew  threatened  trampling.  "  Jesti 
Maria!"  she  cried,  and  tried  to  raise  herself,  but 
could  not.  Ian,  very  near  her,  took  a  step  farther 
in  and,  stooping,  lifted  her.  But  now  the  ravens 
chose  to  fall  foul  of  him.  The  woman  was  present 
ly  gone,  and  her  peasant  fellows.  .  .  .  He  was  beating 
off  a  drunken  Comus  crew,  with  some  of  active  ill- 
will.  His  dress  was  rich — he  was  not  Roman,  evi- 

283 


FOES 

dently — the  surge  had  foamed  and  dragged  across 
from  the  bonfire  and  the  open  place  to  the  dark 
mouth  of  a  poor  street.  Many  a  thing  besides  light- 
hearted  gaieties  happened  in  carnival  season. 

He  became  aware  that  a  friendly  person  had  come 
up,  was  with  him  beating  off  raven,  gorgon,  and 
satyr.  He  saw  that  this  person  was  very  big,  and 
caught  an  old,  oft-noted  trick  in  the  swing  of  his 
arm.  To-night,  in  carnival  time,  when  there  was 
trouble,  it  seemed  quite  natural  and  with  a  touch 
of  home  that  Old  Steadfast  should  loom  forth. 

A  clang  of  music,  shouting,  and  an  oncoming  array 
of  lights  helped  to  daunt  band  of  ravens  and  drunken 
masks.  A  procession  of  fishermen  with  nets  and 
monsters  of  the  sea  approached,  went  by.  The 
attackers  merged  in  the  throng  that  attended  or 
followed,  went  away  with  innocent  shouts  and  songs. 
A  second  push  followed  the  first,  a  great  crowd  of 
masks  and  spectators  bound  for  a  piazza,  through 
which  was  to  pass  one  of  the  final  large  pageants. 
This  wave  carried  with  it  Ian  and  Alexander.  On  such 
a  night,  where  every  sea  was  tumult,  one  indication, 
one  propelling  touch,  was  as  good  as  another.  The  two 
went  on  in  company.  Alexander  was  not  masked. 
Ian  was,  but  that  did  not  to-night  hide  him  from 
the  other.  They  came  into  the  flaringly  lighted 
place.  Around  stood  old  ruins,  piers,  broken  arches 
and  columns,  and  among  these  modern  houses.  For 
the  better  viewing  of  the  spectacle  banks  of  seats 
had  been  built,  tier  upon  tier  rising  high,  propped 
against  what  had  been  ancient  bath  or  temple. 
The  crowd  surged  to  these,  filling  every  stretch  and 
cranny  not  yet  seized  upon.  There  issued  that  the 


FOES 

tiers  were  packed;  dark,  curving,  mounting  rows 
where  foot  touched  shoulder.  The  piazza  turned 
amphitheater. 

Still,  in  this  carnival  night,  Ian  and  Alexander 
found  themselves  together.  They  were  sitting  side 
by  side,  a  third  of  the  way  between  pavement  and 
the  topmost  row.  They  sat  still,  broodingly,  in  a 
cloud  of  things  rememberable,  no  distinct  images, 
but  all  their  common  past,  good  and  bad,  and  the 
progress  from  one  to  the  other,  making  as  it  were 
one  chord,  or  a  mist  of  one  color.  They  did  not 
reason  about  this  momentary  oneness,  but  took  it 
as  it  came.  It  was  carnival  season. 

Yet  the  cloud  dripped  honey,  the  color  was  clear 
and  not  unrestful,  the  chord  sweet  and  resounding. 

The  pageant,  fantastic,  towering,  red  and  purple 
lighted,  passed  by.  The  throng  upon  the  seats 
moved,  rose,  struck  heavily  with  their  feet,  going 
down  the  narrow  ways.  Many  torches  had  been 
extinguished,  many  that  were  carried  had  gone  on, 
following  the  last  triumphal  car.  Here  were  semi- 
darkness,  great  noise  and  confusion — weight,  too, 
pressing  upon  ground  that  long  ago  had  been  honey 
combed;  where  the  crypt  of  a  three-hundred-year- 
old  church  touched  through  an  archway  old  priest 
paths  beneath  a  vanished  temple,  that  in  turn 
gave  into  a  mixed  ruin  of  dungeons  and  cellars 
opening  at  last  to  day  or  night  upon  a  hillside  at 
some  distance  from  the  place  of  raised  benches. 
Now,  the  crowd  pressing  thickly,  the  earth  crust  at 
one  point  trembled,  cracked,  gave  way.  Scaffold 
ing  and  throng  came  with  groans  and  cries  into  a 
very  cavern.  Those  that  were  left  above,  high  on 

285 


FOES 

narrow,  overswaying  platforms,  with  shouts  of  terror 
pushed  back  from  the  pit  mouth,  managed  with 
accidents,  injuries  enough,  to  get  to  firmer  earth. 
Then  began,  among  the  braver  sort,  rescue  of  those 
who  had  gone  down  with  soil  and  timbers.  What 
with  the  darkness  and  the  confused  and  sunken 
ruin,  this  was  difficult  enough. 

Ian  and  Alexander,  unhurt,  clambered  down  the 
standing  part  and  by  the  light  of  congregated  and 
improvised  torches  helped  in  that  rescue,  and  helped 
strongly.  Many  were  pinned  beneath  wood,  smoth 
ered  by  the  caving  earth.  The  rent  was  wide  and 
in  places  the  ruin  afire.  Groans,  cries,  appeals  shook 
the  hearts  of  the  carnival  crowd.  All  would  now 
have  helped,  but  it  was  not  possible  for  many. 
There  must  be  strength  to  descend  into  the  pit  and 
work  there. 

A  beam  pinned  a  man  more  than  near  a  creep 
ing  flame.  The  two  Scots  beat  out  that  fire.  Glen- 
fernie  heaved  away  the  beam,  Ian  drew  out  the  man, 
badly  hurt,  moaning  of  wife  and  child.  Glenfernie 
lifted  him,  mounted  with  him,  over  heaped  debris, 
by  uncertain  ledge  and  step,  until  other  arms,  out 
stretched,  could  take  him.  Turning  back,  he  took 
from  Ian  a  woman's  form,  lifted  it  forth.  Down 
again,  the  two  worked  on.  Others  were  with 
them,  there  was  made  a  one-minded  ring,  folly 
forgot. 

At  last  it  seemed  that  all  were  rescued.  A  few 
men  only  moved  now  in  the  hollow,  peering  here  and 
there.  The  fire  had  taken  headway;  the  gulf,  it 
was  evident,  would  presently  be  filled  with  flame. 
The  heat  beat  back  those  at  the  rim.  "Come  out! 

286 


FOES 

Come  out,  every  one!"  The  rescuers  began  to 
clamber  forth. 

Came  down  a  roaring  pile  of  red-lit  timbers,  with 
smoke  and  sparks.  It  blocked  the  way  for  Alex 
ander  and  Ian.  Turning,  here  threatened  a  pillar 
of  choking  murk,  red-tongued.  Behind  them  was 
a  gaping,  narrow  archway.  Involuntary  recoil  be 
fore  that  stinging  push  of  smoke  brought  them  in 
under  this.  They  were  in  a  passageway,  but  when 
again  they  would  have  made  forth  and  across  to 
the  side  of  the  pit,  and  so,  by  climbing,  out  of  it, 
they  found  that  they  could  not.  Before  them  lay 
now  a  mere  field  of  fire,  and  the  blowing  air  drove 
a  biting  smoke  against  them. 

"Move  back,  until  this  burns  itself  out!  The 
earth  gave  into  some  kind  of  underground  room. 
This  is  a  passage." 

It  stretched  black  behind  them.  Glenfernie  caught 
up  a  thick,  arm-long  piece  of  lighted  wood  that 
would  answer  for  brand.  They  worked  through  a 
long  vaulted  tunnel,  turned  at  right  angles,  and  came 
into  what  their  torch  showed  to  have  been  an 
ancient  chapel.  In  a  niche  stood  a  broken  statue, 
on  the  wall  spread  a  painting  of  St.  Christopher  in 
midstream. 

"Shall  we  go  on?  There  must  be  a  way  out  of 
this  maze." 

"If  the  torch  will  last  us  through." 

They  passed  out  of  the  chapel  into  a  place  where 
of  old  the  dead  had  been  buried.  They  moved  be 
tween  massy  pillars,  by  the  shelves  of  stone  where 
the  bones  lay  in  the  dust.  It  seemed  a  great  enough 
hall.  At  the  end  of  this  they  discovered  an  upward- 


FOES 

going  stair,  but  it  was  old  and  broken,  and  when 
they  mounted  it  they  found  that  it  ended  flat  against 
thick  stone,  roof  to  it,  pavement,  perhaps,  to  some 
old  church.  They  saw  by  a  difference  in  the  flags 
where  had  been  space,  the  stair-opening  into  the 
hollow  of  the  church;  but  now  was  only  stone,  solid 
and  thick.  They  struck  against  it,  but  it  was  move 
less,  and  in  the  church,  if  church  there  were  above, 
none  in  the  dead  night  to  hear  them.  They  came 
down  the  stair,  and  through  a  small,  half-blocked 
doorway  stumbled  into  a  labyrinth  of  passages  and 
narrow  chambers.  They  found  old  pieces  of  wood 
— what  had  been  a  wine-cask,  what  might  have  had 
other  uses.  They  broke  these  into  torch  lengths, 
lighting  one  from  another  as  that  burned  down. 
These  underways  did  not  seem  wholly  neglected, 
buried,  and  forgotten.  There  lacked  any  total 
blocking  or  demolition,  and  there  was  air.  But 
intricacy  and  uncertainty  reigned. 

The  mood  of  the  amphitheater  when  they  had 
sat  side  by  side  claimed  them  still.  There  had  been 
a  reversion  or  a  coming  into  fresh  space  where  quar 
rel  faded  like  a  shadow  before  light.  The  light  was 
a  golden,  hazy  one,  made  up  of  myriads  of  sublimed 
memories,  associations,  judgments,  conclusions. 
Nothing  defined  emerged  from  it;  it  was  simply 
somewhat  golden,  somewhat  warm  light,  as  from  a 
sun  well  under  the  horizon — a  kind  of  dreamy  well- 
being  as  of  old  Together,  unquestioning  Acceptance. 
Suddenly  aroused,  each  might  have  cried,  "For  the 
moment — it  was  for  a  moment  only!"  Then,  for 
the  moment,  there  was  return,  with  addition.  It 
came  like  a  winged  force  from  the  bounds  of  doing 

288 


FOES 

or  undoing.  While  it  lasted  it  imposed  upon  them 
quieted  minds,  withdrew  any  seeming  need  for  ques 
tion.  They  sought  for  egress  from  this  place  where 
their  bodies  moved,  explanation  of  this  material 
labyrinth.  But  they  did  not  seek  explanation  of 
this  mood,  fallen  among  pride  and  anger,  wrong  and 
revenge.  It  came  from  at  large,  with  the  power  of 
largeness.  They  were  back,  "for  the  moment,"  in 
a  simplicity  of  ancient,  firm  companionship. 

They  spoke  scarcely  at  all.  It  had  been  a  habit 
cf  old,  in  their  much  adventuring  together,  to  do  so 
in  long  silences.  Alexander  had  set  the  pace  there, 
Ian  learning  to  follow.  ...  It  was  as  if  this  were  an 
adventure  of,  say,  five  years  ago,  and  it  was  as  if  it 
were  a  dream  adventure.  Or  it  was  as  if  some  part 
of  themselves,  quietly  and  with  a  hidden  will  sepa 
rating  itself,  had  sailed  away  from  the  huge  storm 
and  cloud  and  red  lightnings.  .  .  .  What  they  did  say 
had  wholly  and  only  to  do  with  immediate  exigen 
cies.  Behind,  in  pure  feeling,  was  the  unity. 

Down  in  this  underground  place  the  air  began  to 
come  more  freshly. 

"Look  at  the  flame,"  said  Ian.     "It  is  bending." 

They  had  left  behind  rooms  and  passages  lined 
with  unbroken  masonry.  Here  were  newer  cham 
bers  and  excavations,  softer  walled. 

"They  have  been  opening  from  this  side.  That 
was  dug  not  so  long  ago." 

Another  minute  and  they  came  into  a  ragged, 
cavern-like  space  filled  with  fresh  night  air.  Pres 
ently  they  were  forth  upon  a  low  hillside,  and  at 
their  feet  Tiber  mirrored  the  stars.  Rome  lay 
around.  The  carnival  lights  yet  flared,  the  carnival 

289 


FOES 

noise  beat,  beat.  This  was  a  deserted  strip,  an  islet 
between  restless  seas. 

Ian  and  Alexander  stood  upon  trodden  earth  and 
grass,  about  them  the  yet  encumbering  ruins  of  an 
ancient  building,  pillars  and  architraves  and  capi 
tals,  broken  friezes  and  headless  caryatids.  Here 
was  the  river,  here  the  ancient  street.  They 
breathed  in  the  air,  they  looked  at  the  sky,  but  then 
at  Rome.  Somewhere  a  trumpet  was  fiercely  cry 
ing.  Like  an  impatient  hand,  like  a  spurred  foot, 
it  tore  the  magician's  fabric  of  the  past  few  hours. 

Ian  laughed.  "We  had  best  rub  our  eyes!"  To 
the  fine  hearing  there  was  a  catch  of  the  breath, 
a  small  dancing  hope  in  his  laughter.  "Or,  Glen- 
fernie,  shall  we  dream  on?" 

But  the  other  opened  his  eyes  upon  things  like 
the  Kelpie's  Pool  and  the  old  room  in  the  keep 
where  a  figure  like  himself  read  letters  that  lied. 
He  saw  in  many  places  a  figure  like  himself,  in 
jured  and  fooled,  stuck  full  of  poisoned  arrows. 
The  figure  grew  as  he  watched  it,  until  it  overloomed 
him,  until  he  was  passionately  its  partisan.  He 
said  no  word,  but  he  flung  the  smoking  torch  yet 
held  in  hand  among  the  ruins,  and,  leaving  Ian  and 
his  black  and  silver,  plunged  down  the  slope  to  the 
old,  old  street  along  which  now  poured  a  wave 
of  carnival. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

rPHE  laird  of  Glenfernie  lay  in  the  -flowering 
A  grass,  beneath  a  pine-tree,  rising  lonely  from  the 
Roman  Campagna.  The  grass  flowed  for  miles, 
a  multitudinous  green  speculating  upon  other  colors, 
here  and  there  clearly  donning  a  gold,  an  amethyst, 
a  blue.  The  pine-tree  looked  afar  to  other  pine- 
trees.  Each  seemed  solitary.  Yet  all  had  the  one 
ness  of  the  great  stage,  and  if  it  could  comprehend 
the  stage  might  swim  with  its  little  solitariness  into  a 
wider  uniqueness.  In  the  distance  lay  Rome.  He 
could  see  St.  Peter's  dome.  But  around  streamed 
the  ocean  of  grass  and  the  ocean  of  air.  Lifted  from 
the  one,  bathed  in theother,  strewed  afar,  appeared  the 
wreckage  of  an  older  Rome.  There  was  no  moving 
in  Rome  or  its  Campagna  without  moving  among 
time-cleansed  bones  and  vestiges.  Rome  and  its 
Campagna  were  like  Sargasso  Seas  and  held  the 
hulks  of  what  had  been  great  galleons.  The  air 
swam  above  endless  grass,  endless  minute  flowers. 
In  long  perspective  traveled  the  arches  of  an  Aque 
duct. 

He  lay  in  the  shadow  of  a  broken  tomb.  It  was 
midspring.  The  bland  stillness  of  this  world  was 
grateful  to  him,  after  long  inner  storm.  He  lay 
motionless,  not  far  from  the  skirts  of  Contemplation. 

291 


FOES 

The  long  line  of  the  Aqueduct,  arch  after  arch, 
succession  fixed,  sequence  which  the  gaze  made 
unitary,  toled  on  his  thought.  He  was  regarding 
span  after  span  of  imagery  held  together,  a  very 
wide  and  deep  landscape  of  numerous  sequences, 
more  planes  than  one.  He  was  seeing,  around  the 
cells,  the  shadowy  force  lines  of  the  organ,  around 
the  organ  the  luminous  mist  of  the  organism.  He 
passed  calmly  from  one  great  landscape  to  another. 

Rome.  To-day  and  yesterday  and  the  day  be 
fore,  and  to-morrow.  The  "to-morrow"  put  in  the 
life,  guaranteeing  an  endless  present,  endless  breath 
ing.  He  saw  Rome  the  giant,  the  stone  and  earth 
of  her,  the  vast  animal  life  of  her,  the  vast  passional, 
the  mental  clutch  and  hammer-blow.  The  spiritual 
Rome?  He  sought  it — it  must  be  there.  At  last, 
among  the  far  arches,  it  rose,  a  light,  a  leaven,  an 
ether.  .  .  .  Rome. 

If  there  were  boundaries  in  this  ocean  of  air 
they  were  gauze-thin  and  floating.  He  looked  here 
and  there,  into  landscapes  Rome  led  to.  Like  and 
like,  and  synthesis  of  syntheses!  Images,  finding 
that  of  which  they  were  images,  lost  their  grotesque- 
ness  or  meaninglessness  of  line,  their  quality  of 
caricature,  lost  unripeness,  lost  the  dull  annoy  of 
riddles  never  meant  to  be  answered.  .  .  .  He  had  a 
great  fund  of  images,  material  so  full  that  it  must 
begin  to  build  higher.  Building  higher  meant  ar 
rival  in  a  fluid  world  where  all  aggregates  were 
penetrable. 

He  lay  still  among  the  grasses,  and  it  was  as  though 
he  lay  also  amid  the  wide,  simple,  first  growths  of 
a  larger,  more  potent  living.  Now  and  again, 

292 


FOES 

through  years,  he  had  been  aware  of  approaches, 
always  momentary,  to  this  condition,  to  a  country 
that  lay  behind  time  and  space,  cause  and  effect, 
as  he  ordinarily  knew  them.  The  lightning  went — 
but  always  left  something  transforming.  And  then 
for  three  years  all  gleams  stopped,  a  leaden  wall 
that  they  could  not  pierce  rearing  itself. 

Latterly  they  had  begun  to  return.  .  .  .  The  proud 
will  might  rise  against  them,  but  they  came.  Then 
it  must  be  so,  he  would  have  said  of  another,  that  the 
will  was  divided.  Part  of  it  must  still  have  kept 
its  seat  before  the  door  whence  the  lights  came, 
stayed  there  with  its  face  in  its  hands,  waiting  its 
season.  And  a  part  that  had  said  no  must  be 
coming  to  say  yes,  going  and  taking  its  place  be 
side  the  other  by  the  door.  And  together  they  were 
strong  enough  to  bring  the  gleaming  back,  watch 
ing  the  propitious  moment.  But  still  there  was  the 
opposed  will,  and  it  was  strong.  .  .  .  When  the  light 
came  it  sought  out  old  traces  of  itself,  and  these  be 
came  revivified.  Then  all  joined  together  to  make 
a  flood  against  the  abundant  darkness.  A  day  like 
this  joined  itself  through  likeness  to  others  on  the 
other  side  of  the  three  years,  and  also  to  moments 
of  the  months  just  passed  and  passing.  Union 
was  made  with  a  sleepless  night  in  an  inn  of  Spain, 
with  the  hours  after  his  encounter  with  Ian  in  the 
Paris  theater,  with  that  time  he  sat  upon  the  river 
steps  and  saw  that  the  dead  were  living  and  the 
prisoners  free,  with  the  hour  in  the  amphitheater 
and  after,  in  carnival. 

He  saw  and  heard,  felt  and  tasted,  life  in  greater 
lengths  and  breadths.  He  comprehended  more  of 

293 


FOES 

the  pattern.  The  tones  and  semi-tones  fell  into  the 
long  scale.  Such  moments  brought  always  eleva 
tion,  deep  satisfaction.  .  .  .  More  of  the  will  particles 
traveled  from  below  to  the  center  by  the  door. 

The  soul  turned  the  mind  and  directed  it  upon 
Alexander  Jardine's  own  history.  It  spread  like  a 
landscape,  like  a  continent  viewed  from  the  air, 
and  here  it  sang  with  attainment  and  here  it  had 
not  attained;  and  here  it  was  light,  and  here  there 
were  darknesses;  right-doing  here  and  wrong-doing 
there  and  every  shade  between.  He  saw  that  there 
was  right-  and  wrong-doing  quite  outside  of  con 
ventional  standards. 

Where  were  frontiers  ?  The  edges  of  the  continent 
were  merely  spectral.  Where  did  others  end  and 
he  begin,  or  he  end  and  others  begin?  He  saw  that 
his  history  was  very  wide  and  very  deep  and  very 
high.  Through  him  faintly,  by  nerve  paths  in  the 
making,  traveled  the  touch  of  oneness. 

Alexander  Jardine — Elspeth  Barrow — Ian  Rullock. 
And  all  others — and  all  others. 

There  swam  upon  him  another  great  perspective. 
He  saw  Christ  in  light,  Buddha  in  light.  The  glori 
fied — the  unified.  Union. 

Alexander  Jardine — Elspeth  Barrow — Ian  Rul 
lock.  And  all  others — and  all  others.  For  we  are 
members,  one  of  another. 

The  feathered,  flowered  grass,  miles  of  it,  and 
the  sea  of  air.  ...  By  degrees  the  level  of  conscious 
ness  sank.  The  splendid,  steadfast  moment  could 
not  be  long  sustained.  Consciousness  drew  difficult 
breath  in  the  pure  ether,  it  felt  weight,  it  sank. 
Alexander  moved  against  the  old  tomb,  turned,  and 

294 


FOES 

buried  his  face  in  his  arms.  The  completer  moment 
went  by,  here  was  the  torn  self  again.  But  he 
strove  to  find  footing  on  the  thickening  impressions 
of  all  such  moments. 

Moving  back  to  Rome,  along  the  old  way  where 
had  marched  all  the  legions,  by  the  ruins,  under  the 
blue  sky,  he  had  a  sense  of  going  with  Caesar's 
legions,  step  by  step,  targe  by  targe,  and  then  of 
his  footstep  halting,  turning  out,  breaking  rhythm. 
.  .  .  From  this  it  was  suddenly  a  winter  night  and  at 
Glenfernie,  and  he  sat  by  the  fire  in  his  father's 
death-room.  His  father  spoke  to  him  from  the 
bed  and  he  went  to  his  side  and  listened  to  dying 
words,  distilled  from  a  wide  garden  that  had  re 
laxed  into  bitterness,  growths  and  trails  of  ideal 
hatred.  .  .  .  What  was  it,  setting  one's  foot  upon 
an  adder?  .  .  .  What  was  the  adder? 

He  entered  the  city.  His  lodging  was  above  the 
workroom  and  shop  of  a  recoverer  of  ancient  coins 
and  intaglios,  skilful  cleanser  and  mender  of  these 
and  merchant  to  whom  would  buy.  The  man  was 
artist  besides,  maker  of  strange  drawings  whom  few 
ever  understood  or  bought. 

Glenfernie  liked  him — an  elderly,  fine,  thin,  hook 
nosed,  dark-eyed,  subtle-lipped,  little-speaking  per 
sonage.  No  great  custom  came  to  the  shop  in 
front;  the  owner  of  it  might  work  all  day  in  the 
room  behind,  with  only  two  or  three  peals  of  a 
small  silvery  summoning  bell.  The  lodger  acquired 
the  habit  of  sitting  for  perhaps  an  hour  out  of  each 
twenty-four  in  this  workroom.  He  might  study  at 
the  window  gem  or  coin  and  the  finish  of  old  de 
signs,  or  he  might  lift  and  look  at  sheet  after  sheet 

295 


FOES 

of  the  man's  drawings,  or  watch  him  at  his  work,  or 
have  with  him  some  talk. 

The  drawings  had  a  fascination  for  him.  "What 
did  you  mean  behind  this  outward  meaning?  Now 
here  I  see  this,  and  I  see  that,  but  here  I  don't 
penetrate."  The  man  laid  down  his  mending  a 
broken  Eros  and  came  and  stood  by  the  table  and 
spoke.  Glenfernie  listened,  the  wood  propping 
elbow,  the  hand  propping  chin,  the  eyes  upon  the 
drawing.  Or  he  leaned  back  in  the  great  visitor's 
chair  and  looked  instead  at  the  draftsman.  They 
were  strange  drawings,  and  the  draftsman's  models 
were  not  materially  visible. 

To-day  Glenfernie  came  from  the  noise  of  Rome 
without  into  this  room.  His  host  was  sitting  be 
fore  a  drawing-board.  Alexander  stood  and  looked. 

"Are  you  trying  to  bring  the  world  of  the  plane 
up  a  dimension?  Then  you  work  from  an  idea 
above  the  world  of  the  solid?" 

"Si.     Up  a  dimension." 

"What  are  these  forms?" 

"I  am  dreaming  the  new  eye,  the  new  ear,  the 
new  hand." 

Glenfernie  watched  the  moving  and  the  resting 
hand.  Later  in  the  day  he  returned  to  the  room. 

"It  has  been  a  fertile  season,"  said  the  artist. 
"Look!" 

At  the  top  of  a  sheet  of  paper  was  written  large 
in  Latin,  LOVE  is  BLIND.  Beneath  stood  a  figure 
filled  with^eyes.  "It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  the 
man. 

The  next  day,  at  sunset,  going  up  to  his  room 
after  restless  wandering  in  this  city,  he  found  there 

296 


FOES 

from  Ian  another  intimation  of  the  latter's  move 
ments: 

GLENTERNLE, — I  am  going  northward.  There  will  be  a 
month  spent  at  monseigneur's  villa  upon  the  Lake  of  Como. 
Then  France  again. — IAN  RULLOCK. 

Alexander  laid  the  paper  upon  the  table  before 
him,  and  now  he  stared  at  it,  and  now  he  gazed 
at  space  beyond,  and  where  he  gazed  seemed  dark 
and  empty.  It  was  deep  night  when  finally  he 
dipped  quill  into  ink  and  wrote: 

IAN  RULLOCK, — Stay  or  go  as  you  will!  I  do  not  follow  you 
now  as  I  did  before.  I  come  to  see  the  crudeness,  the  barren 
ness,  of  that.  But  within — oh,  are  you  not  my  enemy  still? 
I  ask  Justice  that,  and  what  can  she  do  but  echo  back  my  words? 
"Within"  is  a  universe. — ALEXANDER  JARDINE. 

Five  days  later  he  knew  that  Ian  with  the  French 
man  in  whose  company  he  was  had  departed  Rome. 
On  that  morning  he  went  again  without  the  city  and 
lay  among  the  grasses.  But  the  sky  to-day  was 
closed,  and  all  dead  Rome  that  had  been  proud 
or  violent  or  a  lover  of  self  seemed  to  move  around 
him  multitudinous.  He  fought  the  shapes  down, 
but  the  sea  in  storm  then  turned  sluggish,  dead  and 
weary.  .  .  .  What  was  he  going  to  do?  Scotland? 
Was  he  going  back  to  Scotland  ?  The  glen,  the  moor, 
White  Farm  and  the  kirk,  Black  Hill  and  his  own 
house — all  seemed  cold  and  without  tint,  gray, 
small,  and  withered,  and  yet  oppressive.  All  that 
would  be  importunate,  officious.  He  cried  out, 
"O  my  God,  I  want  healing!"  For  a  long  time  he 

20  297 


FOES 

lay  there  still,  then,  rising,  went  wandering  by  arches 
and  broken  columns,  choked  doorways,  graved  slabs 
sunken  in  fairy  jungles.  Into  his  mind  came  a  jour 
ney  years  before  when  he  had  just  brushed  a  desert. 
The  East  the  Out-of -Europe,  called  to  him  now 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IAN  guided  the  boat  to  the  water  steps.  Above, 
over  the  wall,  streamed  roses,  a  great,  soundless 
fall  of  them,  reflected,  mass  and  color,  in  the  lake. 
Above  the  roses  sprang  deep  trees,  shade  behind 
shade,  and  here  sang  nightingales.  Facing  him  sat 
the  Milanese  song-bird,  the  singer  Antonia  Castinelli. 
She  had  the  throat  of  the  nightingale  and  the  beauty 
of  the  velvety  open  rose. 

"Why  land?"  she  said.  "Why  climb  the  steps 
to  the  chatter  in  the  villa?" 

"Why  indeed?" 

"They  are  not  singing!  They  are  talking.  There 
is  deep,  sweet  shadow  around  that  point." 

The  boat  turned  glidingly.  Now  it  was  under 
tall  rock,  parapeted  with  trees. 

"Let  Giovanni  have  the  boat.  Come  and  sit 
beside  me!  You  are  too  far  away  for  singing  to 
gether." 

Old  Giovanni  at  the  helm,  boatman  upon  this 
lake  since  youth,  used  long  since  to  murmuring  words, 
to  touching  hands,  stayed  brown  and  wrinkled  and 
silent  and  unspeculative  as  a  walnut.  Perhaps  his 
mind  was  sunk  in  his  own  stone  hut  behind  vine 
leaves.  The  two  under  the  rose-and- white-fringed 
canopy  leaned  toward  each  other. 

299 


FOES 

"Tell  me  of  your  strange,  foreign  land!  Have 
you  roses  there — roses — roses?  And  nightingales 
that  sing  out  your  heart  under  the  moon?" 

"I  will  tell  you  of  the  heather,  the  lark,  and  the 


mavis." 


She  listened.  "Oh,  it  does  not  taste  as  tastes 
this  lake!  Give  me  pain!  Tell  me  of  women  you 
have  loved.  .  .  .  Oh,  hear!  The  nightingales  stop 
singing." 

"Do  you  ever  listen  to  the  silence?" 

"Of  course  .  .  .  when  a  friend  dies — or  I  go  to 
Mass — and  sometimes  when  I  am  singing  very  pas 
sionately.  But  this  lake — " 

She  began  to  sing.  The  contralto  throbbed, 
painted,  told,  brought  delight  and  melancholy.  He 
sat  with  his  hand  loosened  from  hers,  his  eyes  upon 
the  lake's  blue-green  depths.  At  last  she  stopped. 

"Oh — h!  .  .  .  Let  us  go  back  to  the  talking  shore 
and  the  chattering  villa !  Somebody  else  is  singing — • 
somebody  or  something!  I  hear  silence — I  hear  it 
in  the  silence.  .  .  .  Some  things  I  can  sing  against, 
and  some  things  I  can't." 

They  went  underneath  the  wall  of  roses.  Her 
arm,  sleeved  as  with  mist,  touched  his;  her  low, 
wide  brow  and  great  liquid  eyes  were  at  his  shoulder, 
at  his  breast.  "O  foreigner — and  yet  not  at  all 
foreign!  Tell  me  your  English  words  for  roses — • 
walls  of  roses — and  music  that  never  ceases  in  the 
night — and  pleasing,  pleasing,  pleasing  love!" 

The  boat  came  to  the  water  steps.  The  two  left 
it,  climbing  between  flowers.  Down  to  them  came 
a  wave  of  laughter  and  hand-clapping. 

"Celestina  recites — but  I  do  not  think  she  does 
300 


FOES 

it  so  well!  .  .  .  That  is  my  window — see,  where  the 
roses  mount!" 

The  company,  flowing  forth,  caught  them  upon 
the  terrace.  "Lo,  the  truants!" 

But  that  night,  instead  of  climbing  where  the 
roses  climbed,  he  took  a  boat  from  the  number 
moored  by  the  steps  and  rowed  himself  across  the 
lake  to  a  piece  of  shore,  bare  of  houses,  lifting  by 
steep  slope  and  crag  into  the  mountain  masses. 
He  fastened  the  boat  and  climbed  here.  The  moon 
was  round,  the  night  merely  a  paler  day.  He  went 
up  among  low  trees  and  bushes  until  he  came  to 
naked  rock.  He  climbed  here  as  far  as  he  might, 
found  some  manner  of  platform,  and  threw  him 
self  down,  below  him  the  lake,  around  him  the 
mountains. 

He  lay  still  until  the  expended  energy  was  re 
placed.  At  last  the  mind  moved  and,  apprentice- 
bound  to  feeling,  began  again  a  hot  and  heavy  and 
bitter  work,  laid  aside  at  times  and  then  renewed. 
It  was  upon  the  vindication  to  himself  of  Ian 
Rullock. 

It  was  made  to  work  hard.  .  .  .  Its  old  task  used 
to  be  to  keep  asleep  upon  the  subject.  But  now  for 
a  considerable  time  this  had  been  its  task.  Old 
feeling,  old  egoism,  awakened  up  and  down,  drove 
it  hard!  It  had  to  make  bricks  without  straw.  It 
had  to  fetch  and  carry  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Emotion,  when  it  must  rest,  provided  for  it  a  dull 
place  of  listlessness  and  discontent.  But  the  task 
master  now  would  have  it  up  at  all  hours,  fashioning 
reasons  and  justifications.  The  soonest  found  straw 
in  the  fields  lay  in  the  faults  of  others — of  the  world 

301 


FOES 

in  general  and  Alexander  Jardine  in  particular. 
Feeling  got  its  anodyne  in  gloating  over  these.  It 
had  the  pounce  of  a  panther  for  such  a  bitter  berry, 
such  a  weed,  such  a  shameful  form.  It  did  not 
always  gloat,  but  it  always  held  up  and  said,  Who 
could  be  weaker  here — more  open  to  question?  It  made 
constant,  sore  comparison. 

The  lake  gleamed  below  him,  the  herded  moun 
tains  slept  in  a  gray  silver  light.  How  many  were 
the  faults  of  the  laird  of  Glenfernie!  Faults!  He 
looked  at  the  dark  old  plains  of  the  moon.  That  was 
a  light  word !  He  saw  Alexander  pitted  and  scarred. 

Pride!  That  had  always  been  in  the  core  of 
Glenfernie.  That  has  been  his  old  fortress,  walled 
and  moated  against  trespass.  Pride  so  high  that 
it  was  careless — that  its  possessor  could  seem  peace 
able  and  humble.  .  .  .  But  find  the  quick  and  touch 
it — and  you  saw!  What  was  his  was  his.  What 
he  deemed  to  be  his,  whether  it  was  so  or  not! 
Touch  him  there  and  out  jumped  jealousy,  hate, 
and  implacableness — and  all  the  time  one  had 
been  thinking  of  him  as  a  kind  of  seer! 

Ian  turned  upon  the  rock  above  Como.  And 
Glenfernie  was  ignorant!  The  seer  had  seen  very 
little,  after  all.  His  touch  had  not  been  precisely  per- 
meative  when  it  came  to  the  world,  Ian  Rullock. 
If  liking  meant  understanding,  there  had  not  been 
much  understanding — which  left  liking  but  a  word. 
If  liking  was  a  degree  of  love,  where  then  had  been 
love,  where  the  friend  at  all?  After  all,  and  all  the 
time,  Glenfernie's  notion  of  friendship  was  a  sieve. 
The  notion  that  he  had  held  up  as  though  it  were 
the  North  Star! 

302 


FOES 

The  world,  Ian  Rullock,  could  not  be  so  con 
temned.  .  .  . 

He  felt  with  heat  and  pain  the  truth  of  that.  It 
was  a  wrong  that  Glenf ernie  should  not  understand ! 
The  world,  Ian  Rullock,  might  be  incomplete,  im 
perfect — might  have  taken,  more  than  once,  wrong 
turns,  left  its  path,  so  to  speak,  in  the  heavens. 
But  what  of  the  world,  Alexander  Jardine?  Had  it 
no  memories?  He  brooded  over  what  these  mem 
ories  might  be — must  be;  he  tried  to  taste  and 
handle  that  other's  faults  in  time  and  space.  But 
he  could  not  plunge  into  Alexander's  depths  of 
wrath.  As  he  could  not,  he  made  himself  con 
temptuous  of  all  that — of  Old  Steadfast's  power  of 
reaction ! 

A  star  shot  across  the  moon-filled  night,  so  large 
a  meteor  that  it  made  light  even  against  that  silver. 
A  mass  within  Ian  made  a  slow  turn,  with  effort, 
with  thrilling,  changed  its  inclination.  He  saw 
that  disdain,  that  it  was  shallow  and  streaked  with 
ebony.  He  moved  with  a  kind  of  groan.  "Was 
there — is  there — wickedness?  .  .  .  What,  O  God,  is 
wickedness?" 

He  pressed  the  rock  with  his  hand — sat  up.  The 
old  taskmaster,  alarmed,  gathered  his  forces.  "I 
say  that  it  is  just  that — pride,  vengefulness,  hard 
misunderstanding !" 

A  voice  within  him  answered.  "Even  so,  is  it 
not  still  yourself?" 

He  stared  after  the  meteor  track.  There  was  a 
conception  here  that  he  had  not  dreamed  of. 

It  seemed  best  to  keep  still  upon  the  rock.  He 
sat  in  inner  wonder.  There  was  a  sense  of  purity, 

303 


FOES 

of  a  fresh  coolness  not  physical,  of  awe.  He  was 
in  presence  of  something  comprehensive,  immortal. 

"Is  it  myself?  Then  let  it  pour  out  and  make  of 
naught  the  old  poison  of  myself!" 

The  perception  could  not  hold.  It  flagged  and 
sank,  echoing  down  into  the  caves.  He  sat  still 
and  felt  the  old  taskmaster  stir.  But  this  time  he 
found  strength  to  resist.  There  resulted,  not  the 
divine  novelty  and  largeness  of  that  one  moment, 
but  a  kind  of  dim  and  bare  desert  waste  of  wide  ex 
tent.  And  as  it  ate  up  all  width,  so  it  seemed  time 
less.  Across  this,  like  a  person,  unheralded,  came 
and  went  two  lines  from  "Richard  III" 

Clarence  is  come — false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence, 
That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury. 

It  went  and  left  awareness  of  the  desert.  "False — 
fleeting — perjured.  ..." 

He  saw  himself  as  in  mirrors. 

The  desert  ached  and  became  a  place  of  thorns 
and  briers  and  bewilderment.  Then  rose,  like  An 
taeus,  the  taskmaster.  "And  what  of  all  that — if  I 
like  life  so?" 

Sense  of  the  villa  and  the  roses  and  the  nightin 
gales  in  the  coverts — sense  of  wide,  mobile  sweeps 
and  flowing  currents  in  washing,  indrawing,  pleasure- 
crafts  great  and  small — desire  and  desire  for  desire 
— lust  for  sweetness,  lust  for  salt — the  rose  to  be 
plucked,  the  grapes  to  be  eaten — and  all  for  self, 
all  for  Ian.  .  .  . 

He  started  up  from  the  rock  above  Como,  and 
turned  to  descend  to  the  boat.  That  within  him 
that  set  itself  to  make  thin  cloud  of  the  taskmaster 

304 


FOES 

pulled  him  back  as  by  the  hair  of  the  head  and  cast 
him  down  upon  the  rocky  floor. 

He  lay  still,  half  upon  his  face  buried  in  the 
bend  of  his  arm.  He  felt  misery. 

"My  soul  is  sick — a  beggar — like  to  become  an 
outcast!" 

How  long  he  lay  here  now  he  did  not  know. 
The  nadir  of  night  was  passed,  but  there  was  cold 
and  voidness,  an  abyss.  He  felt  as  one  fallen  from 
a  great  height  long  ago.  "There  is  no  help  here! 
Let  me  only  go  to  an  eternal  sleep — " 

A  wind  began.  In  the  east  the  sky  grew  whiter 
than  elsewhere.  There  came  a  sword-blow  from  an 
unseen  hand,  ripping  and  tearing  veils.  Elspeth — 
Elspeth  Barrow! 

In  a  bitterness  as  of  myrrh  he  came  into  touch  with 
cleanness,  purity,  wholeness.  Henceforth  there  was 
invisible  light.  Its  first  action  was  not  to  show  him 
scorchingly  the  night  of  Egypt,  but  with  the  quiet 
ness  of  the  whitening  east  to  bring  a  larger  under 
standing  of  Elspeth. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  caravan,  having  spent  three  days  in  a  town 
at  the  edge  of  the  desert,  set  forth  in  the  after 
noon.  The  caravan  was  a  considerable  one.  Three 
hundred  camels,  more  than  a  hundred  asses,  went 
heavily  laden.  Twenty  men  rode  excellent  horses; 
ten,  poorer  steeds;  the  company  of  others  mounted 
with  the  merchandise  or,  staff  in  hand,  strode  beside. 
In  safe  stretches  occurred  a  long  stringing  out,  with 
lagging  at  the  rear;  in  stretches  where  robber  bands 
or  other  dangers  might  be  apprehended  things  be 
came  compact.  Besides  traders  and  their  employ, 
there  rode  or  walked  a  handful  of  chance  folk  who 
had  occasion  for  the  desert  or  for  places  beyond  it. 
These  paid  some  much,  some  little,  but  all  some 
thing  for  the  advantage  of  this  convoy.  The  traders 
did  not  look  to  lose,  whoever  went  with  them. 
Altogether,  several  hundred  men  journeyed  in 
company. 

The  elected  chief  of  the  caravan  was  a  tall  Arab, 
Zeyn  al-Din.  Twelve  of  the  camels  were  his;  he 
was  a  merchant  of  spices,  of  wrought  stuff,  girdles, 
and  gems — a  man  of  forty,  bold  and  with  scope. 
He  rode  a  fine  horse  and  kept  usually  at  the  head  of 
the  caravan.  But  now  and  again  he  went  up  and 
down,  seeing  to  things.  Then  there  was  talking, 

306 


FOES 

loud  or  low,  between  the  head  man  and  units  of  the 
march. 

Starting  from  its  home  city,  this  caravan  had 
been  for  two  days  in  good  spirits.  Then  had  be 
come  to  creep  in  disaster,  not  excessive,  but  per 
sistent.  One  thing  and  another  befell,  and  at  last 
a  stealing  sickness,  none  knew  what,  attacking  both 
beast  and  man.  They  had  made  the  town  at  the 
edge  of  the  desert.  Physicians  were  found  and  rest 
taken.  Recuperation  and  trading  proceeded  amic 
ably  together.  The  day  of  departure  wheeling 
round,  the  noontide  prayer  was  made  with  an  es 
pecial  fervor  and  attention.  Then  from  the  caravan 
serai  forth  stepped  the  camels. 

The  sun  descending,  the  caravan  threw  a  giant 
shadow  upon  the  sand.  Ridge  and  wave  of  sterile 
earth  broke  it,  confused  it,  made  it  an  unintelligible, 
ragged,  moving,  and  monstrous  shade.  The  sun 
was  red  and  huge.  As  it  lowered  to  the  desert  rim 
Zeyn  al-Din  gave  the  order  for  the  seven-hour  halt. 
The  orb  touched  the  sand;  prayer  carpets  were 
spread. 

Night  of  stars  unnumbered,  the  ineffable  tent, 
arched  the  desert.  The  caravan,  a  small  thing  in 
the  world,  lay  at  rest.  The  meal  was  over.  Here 
was  coolness  after  heat,  repose  after  toil.  The  fires 
that  had  been  kindled  from  scrub  and  waste  lessened, 
died  away.  Zeyn  al-Din  appointed  the  guards  for 
the  night,  went  himself  the  rounds. 

Where  one  of  the  fires  had  burned  he  found  cer 
tain  of  those  men  who  were  not  merchants  nor  ser 
vants  of  merchants,  yet  traveled  with  the  caravan. 
Here  were  Hassan  the  Scribe,  and  AH  the  Wanderer, 

307 


FOES 

and  the  dervish  Abdallah,  and  others.  Here  was  the 
big  Christian  from  some  outlandish  far-away  country, 
who  had  dwelt  for  the  better  part  of  a  year  in  the 
city  whence  the  caravan  started,  who  had  money 
and  a  wish  to  reach  the  city  toward  which  the 
caravan  journeyed.  In  the  first  city  he  had  become, 
it  seemed,  well  liked  by  Yusuf  the  Physician,  that 
was  the  man  that  Zeyn  al-Din  most  admired  in 
life.  It  was  Yusuf  who  had  recommended  the 
Christian  to  Zeyn,  who  did  not  like  infidel  sojourners 
with  caravans.  Zeyn  himself  was  liberal  and  did 
not  so  much  mind,  but  he  had  had  experience  with 
troubles  created  along  the  way  and  in  the  column 
itself.  The  more  ignorant  or  the  stiffer  sort  thought 
it  unpleasing  to  Allah.  But  Zeyn  al-Din  would  do 
anything  really  that  Yusuf  the  Physician  wanted. 
So  in  the  end  the  big  Christian  came  along.  Zeyn, 
interpreting  fealty  to  Yusuf  to  mean  care  in  some 
measure  for  this  infidel's  well-being,  began  at  once 
with  a  few  minutes'  riding  each  day  beside  him. 
These  insensibly  expanded  to  more  than  a  few. 
He  presently  liked  the  infidel.  "He  is  a  man!"  said 
Zeyn  and  that  was  the  praise  that  he  considered 
highest.  The  big  Christian  rode  strongly  a  strong 
horse;  he  did  not  fret  over  small  troubles  nor  ap 
parently  fear  great  ones;  he  did  not  say,  "This  is 
my  way,"  and  infer  that  it  was  better  than  others; 
he  liked  the  red  camel,  the  white,  and  the  brown. 
"Who  dances  with  the  sand  is  not  stifled,"  said 
Zeyn. 

Now  he  found  the  Christian  with  Hassan,  listen 
ing  at  ease,  stretched  upon  the  sand,  to  AH  the 
Wanderer.  The  head  man,  welcomed,  listened,  too, 

308 


FOES 

to  AH  bringing  his  story  to  a  close.  "That  is  good, 
Ali  the  Wanderer!  Just  where  grows  the  tree  from 
which  one  gathers  that  fruit?" 

"It  can't  be  told  unless  you  already  know,"  said 
Ali. 

"Allah  my  refuge!  Then  I  would  not  be  asking 
you!"  answered  Zeyn.  "I  should  have  shaken  the 
tree  and  gathered  the  diamonds,  rubies,  and  emer 
alds,  and  been  off  with  them!" 

"You  did  not  hear  what  was  said.  Ibn  the 
Happy  found  that  they  could  not  be  taken  from  the 
tree.  He  had  tried  what  you  propose.  He  broke 
off  a  great  number  and  ran  away  with  them.  But 
they  turned  to  black  dust  in  his  bosom.  He  put 
them  all  down,  and  when  he  looked  back  he  saw 
them  still  shining  on  the  tree." 

"What  did  Ibn  the  Happy  do?" 

"He  climbed  into  the  tree  and  lived  there." 

In  the  distance  jackals  were  barking.  "I  like 
nothing  better  than  listening  to  stories,"  said  Zeyn 
al-Din.  "But,  Allah!  Just  now  there  are  more 
important  things  to  do!  Yusuf  the  Red,  I  name 
you  watcher  here  until  moonrise.  Then  waken 
Melee,  who  already  sleeps  there!" 

His  eyes  touched  in  passing  the  big  Christian. 
"Oh  yes,  you  would  be  a  good  watcher,"  thought 
Zeyn.  "But  there's  a  folly  in  this  caravan!  Wait 
till  good  fortune  has  a  steadier  foot!" 

But  good  fortune  continued  a  wavering,  evanish 
ing  thing.  Deep  in  the  night,  from  behind  a  stif 
fened  wave  of  earth,  rose  and  dashed  a  mounted 
band  of  Bedouin  robbers.  Yusuf  the  Red  and  other 
watchers  had  and  gave  some  warning.  Zeyn  al- 

309 


FOES 

Din's  voice  was  presently  heard  like  a  trumpet. 
The  caravan  repelled  the  robbers.  But  five  of  its 
number  were  lost,  some  camels  and  mules  driven  off. 
The  Bedouins  departing  with  wild  cries,  there  were 
left  confusion  and  bewailing,  slowly  straightening, 
slowly  sinking.  The  caravan,  with  a  pang,  recog 
nized  that  ill  luck  was  a  traveler  with  it. 

The  dead  received  burial;  the  wounded  were 
looked  to,  at  last  hoisted,  groaning,  upon  the  camels, 
among  the  merchandise.  Unrested,  bemoaning  loss, 
the  trading  company  made  their  morning  start 
three  hours  behind  the  set  time.  For  stars  in  the 
sky,  there  was  the  yellow  light  and  the  sun  at  a 
bound,  strewing  heat.  In  the  melee  the  robbers 
had  thrust  lance  or  knife  into  several  of  the  water- 
skins.  Yet  there  was,  it  was  held,  provision  enough. 
The  caravan  went  on.  At  midday  the  Bedouins  re 
turned,  reinforced.  Zeyn  al-Din  and  his  mustered 
force  beat  them  off.  No  loss  of  goods  or  life,  but 
much  of  time!  The  caravan  went  on,  that  with 
laden  beasts  must  move  at  best  much  like  a  tor 
toise.  That  night  the  rest  was  shortened.  Two 
hours  after  midnight  and  the  strings  of  camels  were 
moving  again,  the  asses  and  mules  so  monstrously 
misshapen  with  bales  of  goods,  the  horses  and  horse 
men  and  those  afoot.  At  dawn,  not  these  Bedouins, 
but  another  roving  band,  harassed  them.  Time 
was  running  like  water  from  a  cracked  pitcher. 

This  day  they  cleared  the  robber  bands.  There 
spread  before  them,  around  them,  clean  desert. 
Then  returned  that  sickness. 

"0  Zeyn  al-Din,  what  could  we  expect  who  travel 
with  him  who  denies  Allah?" 

310 


FOES 

The  stricken  caravan  crept  under  the  blaze 
across  the  red  waste.  Camels  fell  and  died.  Their 
burdens  were  lifted  from  them  and  added  to  the 
packs  of  others;  their  bodies  were  left  to  light 
and  heat  and  moving  air.  ...  It  grew  that  an  en 
chantment  seemed  to  hold  the  feet  of  the  caravan. 
Evils  came  upon  them,  sickness  of  men  and  beasts. 
And  now  it  was  seen  that  there  was  indeed  little 
water. 

"0  Zeyn  al-Din,  rid  us  of  this  infidel!" 

"The  infidel  is  in  you!"  answered  Zeyn  al-Din. 
"Much  speaking  makes  for  thirst  and  impedes 
motion.  Let  us  cross  this  desert." 

"O  Zeyn  al-Din,  if  you  be  no  right  head  man  we 
shall  choose  another!" 

"Choose!"  said  Zeyn  al-Din,  and  went  to  the 
head  of  a  camel  who  would  not  rise  from  the  sand. 

Ill  luck  clung  and  clung.  Twelve  hours  and  there 
began  to  be  cabals.  These  grew  to  factions.  The 
larger  of  these  swallowed  the  small  fry,  swelled  and 
mounted,  took  the  shape  of  practically  the  whole 
caravan.  "Zeyn  al-Din,  if  you  do  not  harken  to 
us  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you!  Drive  away  the 
Christian  dog!" 

"Abu  al-Salam,  are  you  the  chief,  or  I? — Now, 
companions,  listen !  These  are  the  reasons  in  nature 
for  our  troubles — " 

But  no !  It  was  the  noon  halt.  The  desert  swam 
in  light  and  silence.  The  great  majority  of  the 
traders  and  their  company  undertook  to  play  di 
vining,  judging,  determining  Allah.  The  big  Chris 
tian  stood  over  against  them  and  looked  at  them, 
his  arms  folded. 


FOES 

"It  is  no  such  great  matter!  .  .  .  Very  good  then! 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Turn  your  head  and  your  eyes  from  us,  and  go 
to  what  fate  Allah  parcels  out  to  you!" 

There  arose  a  buzzing.  "Better  we  slay  him 
here  and  now!  So  Allah  will  know  our  side!" 

Zeyn  al-Din  stepped  forth.  "This  is  the  friend 
of  my  friend  and  I  am  pledged.  Slay,  and  you  will 
have  two  to  slay!  O  Allah!  what  a  thing  it  is  to 
stare  at  the  west  when  the  riders  are  in  the  east!" 

"Zeyn  al-Din,  we  have  chosen  for  head  man  Abu 
al-Salam." 

"Allah  with  you!  I  should  say  you  had  chosen 
well.  I  have  twelve  camels,"  said  Zeyn  al-Din. 
"I  make  another  caravan!  Mansur,  Omar,  and 
Melee,  draw  you  forth  my  camels  and  mules!" 

With  a  weaker  man  there  might  have  been  inter 
ference,  stoppage.  But  Zeyn's  mass  and  force  ac 
quired  clear  space  for  his  own  movements.  He 
made  his  caravan.  He  had  with  him  so  many  men. 
Three  of  these  stood  by  him;  the  others  cowered 
into  the  great  caravan,  into  the  shadow  of  Abu  al- 
Salam. 

Zeyn  threw  a  withering  look.  "Oh,  precious  is 
the  skin!" 

The  big  infidel  came  to  him.  "Zeyn  al-Din,  I 
do  not  want  all  this  peril  for  me.  I  have  ridden 
away  alone  before  to-day.  Now  I  shall  go  in  that 
direction,  and  I  shall  find  a  garden." 

"Perhaps  we  shall  find  it,"  said  Zeyn.  •  "Does 
any  other  go  with  my  caravan?" 

It  seemed  that  Ali  the  Wanderer  went,  and  the 
dervish  Abdallah.  .  .  .  There  was  more  ado,  but  at 

312 


FOES 

last  the  caravan  parted.  .  .  .  The  great  one,  the  long 
string  of  beads,  drew  with  slow  toil  across  the  waste, 
along  the  old  track.  The  very  small  one,  the  tiny 
string  of  beads,  departed  at  right  angles.  Space 
grew  between  them.  The  dervish  Abdallah  turned 
upon  his  camel. 

"It  seems  that  we  part.  But,  O  Allah!  around 
'We  part'  is  drawn  'We  are  together!"1 

Zeyn  al-Din  made  a  gesture  of  assent.  "O  I 
shall  meet  in  bazaars  Abu  al-Salam!  'Ha!  Zeyn 
al-Din!'— 'Ha!  Abu  al-Salam!'" 

The  sun  sank  lower.  The  vastly  larger  caravan 
drew  away,  drew  away,  over  the  desert  rim.  Be 
tween  the  two  was  now  a  sea  of  desert  waves. 
Where  the  great  string  of  camels,  the  asses,  the 
riders,  the  men  could  be  seen,  all  were  like  little 
figures  cut  from  dark  paper,  drawn  by  some  invisible 
finger,  slowly,  slowly  across  a  wide  floor.  Before 
long  there  were  only  dots,  far  in  the  distance. 
Around  Zeyn  al-Din 's  caravan  swept  a  great  soli 
tude. 

"Halt!"  said  Zeyn.  "Now  they  observe  us  no 
longer,  and  this  is  what  we  do !" 

All  the  merchant  lading  was  taken  from  the 
camels.  The  bales  of  wealth  strewed  the  sand. 
"Wealth  is  a  comfortable  garment,"  said  Zeyn, 
' '  but  life  is  a  richer  yet !  That  which  gathers  wealth 
is  wealth.  Now  we  shall  go  thrice  as  fast  as  Abu 
al-Salam!" 

"Far  over  there,"  said  AH  the  Wanderer,  and 
nodded  his  head  toward  the  quarter,  "is  the  small 
oasis  called  the  Garland." 

"I  have  heard  of  it,  though  I  have  not  been 
21  313 


FOES 

there,"  answered  Zeyn.  "Well,  we  shall  not  rest 
to-night;  we  shall  ride!" 

They  rode  in  the  desert  beneath  the  stars,  going 
fast,  camels  and  horses,  unencumbered  by  bales  and 
packs  unwieldy  and  heavy.  But  there  were  guarded, 
as  though  they  were  a  train  of  the  costliest  mer 
chandise,  the  shrunken  water-skins.  .  .  . 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie,  riding  in  silence  by  Zeyn 
al-Din,  whom  he  had  thanked  once  with  emphasis, 
and  then  had  accepted  as  he  himself  was  accepted, 
looked  now  at  the  desert  and  now  at  the  stars  and 
now  at  past  things.  A  year  and  more — he  had  been 
a  year  and  more  in  the  East.  If  you  had  it  in  you 
to  grow,  the  East  was  good  growing-ground.  .  .  .  He 
looked  toward  the  stars  beneath  which  lay  Scotland. 

The  night  passed.  The  yellow  dawn  came  up, 
the  sun  and  the  heat  of  day.  And  they  must  still 
press  on.  ...  At  last  the  horses  could  not  do  that. 
At  eve  they  shot  the  horses,  having  no  water  for 
them.  They  went  on  upon  camels.  Great  suffer 
ing  came  upon  them.  They  went  stoically,  the 
Arabs  and  the  Scot.  The  eternal  waste,  the  sand, 
the  arrows  of  the  sun.  .  .  .  The  most  of  the  camels 
died.  Day  and  night  and  morn,  and,  almost  dead 
themselves,  the  men  saw  upon  the  verge  the  palms 
of  the  desert  oasis  called  the  Garland. 

Seven  men  dwelt  seven  days  in  the  Garland. 
Uninhabited  it  stood,  a  spring,  date-palms,  lesser 
verdure,  a  few  birds  and  small  beasts  and  winged 
insects.  It  was  an  emerald  set  in  ashy  gold. 

The  dervish  Abdallah  sat  in  contemplation  under 
a  palm.  AH  the  Wanderer  lay  and  dreamed.  Zeyn 

3*4 


FOES 

al-Din  and  his  men,  Mansur,  Omar,  and  Melee, 
were  as  active  as  time  and  place  admitted.  The 
camels  tasted  rich  repose.  Day  went  by  in  dry 
light,  in  a  pleasant  rustling  and  waving  of  palm 
fronds.  Night  sprang  in  starshine,  wonderful  soft 
lamps  orbed  in  a  blue  vault.  Presently  was  born 
and  grew  a  white  moon. 

Alexander  Jardine,  standing  at  the  edge  of  the 
emerald,  watched  it.  He  could  not  sleep.  The  first 
nights  in  the  Garland  he  with  the  others  had  slept 
profoundly.  But  now  there  was  recuperation, 
strength  again.  Around  swept  the  circle  of  the 
desert.  Above  him  he  saw  Canopus. 

He  ceased  to  look  directly  at  the  moon,  or  the 
desert,  or  Canopus.  He  stretched  himself  upon  the 
clear  sand  and  was  back  in  the  inner  vast  that 
searched  for  the  upper  vast.  Since  the  grasses  of 
the  Campagna  there  had  been  a  long  search,  and 
his  bark  had  encountered  many  a  wind,  head  winds 
and  favoring  winds,  and  had  beaten  from  coast 
to  coast. 

"O  God,  for  the  open,  divine  sea  and  Wisdom 
the  compass — " 

He  lay  beneath  the  palm;  he  put  his  arm  over  his 
eyes.  For  an  hour  he  had  been  whelmed  in  an  old 
sense,  bitter  and  stately,  of  the  woe,  the  broken 
knowledge,  the  ailing  and  the  pain  of  the  world. 
All  the  world.  .  .  .  That  other  caravan,  where  was 
it?  .  .  .  Where  were  all  caravans?  And  all  the  be 
wilderment  and  all  the  false  hopes  and  all  the  fool's 
paradises.  All  the  crying  in  the  night.  Children.  .  .  . 

Little  by  little  he  recognized  that  he  was  seeing 
it  as  panorama.  .  .  .  None  saw  a  panorama  until  one 


FOES 

was  out  of  the  plane  of  its  components — out  of  the 
immediate  plane.  Gotten  out  as  all  must  get  out, 
by  the  struggling  Thought,  which,  the  thing  done, 
uses  its  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  his  past.  He  did  not  beat  his  breast 
nor  cry  out  in  repentance,  but  he  saw  with  a  kind 
of  wonder  the  plains  of  darkness.  Oh,  the  deserts, 
and  the  slow-moving  caravans  in  them! 

He  lay  very  still  beneath  the  palm.  All  the 
world.  .  .  .  All. 

"All  is  my  self." 

"Ian?    Myself— myself— myself!" 

He  heard  a  step  upon  the  sand — the  putting  by 
of  a  branch.  The  Sufi  Abdallah  stood  beside  him. 
Alexander  made  a  movement. 

"Lie  still,"  said  the  other,  "I  will  sit  here,  for 
sweet  is  the  night."  He  took  his  place,  white-robed, 
a  gleaming  upon  the  sand.  Silent  almost  always, 
it  was  nothing  that  he  should  sit  silent  now,  quiet, 
moveless,  gone  away  apparently  among  the  stars. 

The  moments  dropped,  each  a  larger  round.  Glen- 
fernie  moved,  sat  up. 

"I've  felt  you  and  your  calm  in  our  caravaning. 
Let  me  see  if  my  Arabic  will  carry  me  here! — What 
have  you  that  I  have  not  and  that  I  long  for?" 

"I  have  nought  that  you  have  not." 

"But  you  see  the  having,  and  I  do  not." 

"You  are  beginning  to  see." 

The  wind  breathed  in  the  oasis  palms.  The  earth 
turned,  seeking  the  sun  for  her  every  chamber,  the 
earth  made  pilgrimage  around  the  sun,  eying  point 
after  point  of  that  excellence,  the  earth  journeyed 
with  the  sun,  held  by  the  invisible  cords. 

'316 


FOES 

"I  wish  new  sight — I  wish  new  touch — I  wish 
comprehension!" 

"You  are  beginning  to  have  it." 

"I  have  more  than  I  had.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  it — " 

"There  is  birth.  .  .  .  Then  comes  the  joy  of  birth. 
At  last  comes  the  knowledge  of  why  there  is  joy. 
Strive  to  be  fully  born." 

1  'And  if  I  were  so—  ?" 

"Then  life  alters  and  there  is  strong  embrace." 

A  great  stillness  lay  upon  the  oasis  and  the  desert 
around.  Men  and  beasts  were  sleeping,  only  these 
two  waking,  just  here,  just  now.  After  a  moment 
the  dervish  spoke  again.  "The  holder-back  is  the 
sense  of  disunity.  Sit  fast  and  gather  yourself  to 
yourself.  .  .  .  Then  will  you  find  how  large  is  your 
brood!" 

He  rose,  stood  a  moment  above  Glenfernie,  then 
went  away.  The  man  whom  he  left  sat  on,  struck 
from  within  by  fresh  shafts.  Perception  now  came 
in  this  way,  with  inner  beam.  How  huge  was  the 
landscape  that  it  lighted  up!  ...  Alexander  sat  still. 
He  bent  his  head — there  was  a  sense,  extending  to 
the  physical,  of  a  broken  shell,  of  escape,  freedom.  .  .  . 
He  found  that  he  was  weeping.  He  lay  upon  the 
sand,  and  the  tears  came  as  they  might  from  a  young 
boy.  When  they  were  past,  when  he  lifted  him 
self  again,  the  morning  star  was  in  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

OTRICKLAND,  in  the  deep  summer  glen,  saw 
^  before  him  the  feather  of  smoke  from  Mother 
Binning's  cot.  The  singing  stream  ran  clearly,  the 
sky  arched  blue  above.  The  air  held  calm  and  fine, 
filled  as  it  were  with  golden  points.  He  met  a  white 
hen  and  her  brood,  he  heard  the  slow  drone  of 
Mother  Binning's  wheel.  She  sat  in  the  doorway, 
an  old  wise  wife,  active  still. 

"Eh,  mon,  and  it's  you! — Wish,  and  afttimes  yell 
get!"  She  pushed  her  wheel  aside.  "I've  had  a 
feeling  a'  the  day!" 

Strickland  leaned  against  her  ash-tree.  "It's  high 
summer,  Mother — one  of  the  poised,  blissful  days." 

"Aye.  I've  a  feeling.  .  .  .  Hae  ye  ony  news  at  the 
House?" 

"Alice  sings  beautifully  this  summer.  Jamie  is 
marrying  down  in  England — beauty  and  worth  he 
says,  and  they  say." 

"Miss  Alice  doesna  marry?" 

"She's  not  the  marrying  kind,  she  says." 

"Eh,  then!  She's  bonny  and  gude,  juist  the 
same!  Did  ye  come  by  White  Farm?" 

"Yes.  Jarvis  Barrow  fails.  He  sits  under  his 
fir-tree,  with  his  Bible  beside  him  and  his  eyes  on 
the  hills.  Littlefarm  manages  now  for  White  Farm. " 

318 


FOES 

"  Robin's  sunny  and  keen.  But  he  aye  irked  Jar- 
vis  with  his  profane  sangs. ' '  She  drew  out  the  adjec 
tive  with  a  humorous  downward  drag  of  her  lip. 

Strickland  smiled.  "The  old  man's  softer  now. 
You  see  that  by  the  places  at  which  his  Bible  opens." 

"Oh  aye!  We're  journeyers — rock  and  tree  and 
Kelpie's  Pool  with  the  rest  of  us." 

She  seemed  to  catch  her  own  speech  and  look  at 
it.  "That's  a  word  I  hae  been  wanting  the  morn! 
— The  Kelpie's  Pool,  with  the  moor  sae  green  and 
purple  around  it."  She  sat  bent  forward,  her 
wrinkled  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes,  rather  wide, 
fixed  upon  the  ash- tree. 

"We  have  not  heard  from  the  laird,"  said  Strick 
land,  "this  long  time." 

"The  laird — now  there!  What  ye  want  further 
comes  when  the  mind  strains  and  then  waits!  I 
see  in  one  ring  the  day  and  Glenfernie  and  yonder 
water.  Wherever  the  laird  be,  he  thinks  to-day  of 
Scotland." 

"I  wish  that  he  would  think  to  returning,"  said 
Strickland.  He  had  been  leaning  against  the  door 
post.  Now  he  straightened  himself.  "I  will  go  on 
as  far  as  the  pool." 

Mother  Binning  loosed  her  hands.  "Did  ye  have 
that  thought  when  ye  left  hame?" 

"No,  I  believe  not." 

"Gae  on,  then!  The  day's  bonny,  and  the  Lord's 
gude  has  a  wide  ring!" 

Strickland  walking  on,  left  the  stream  and  the 
glen  head.  Now  he  was  upon  the  moor.  It  dipped 
and  rose  like  a  Titan  wave  of  a  Titan  sea.  Its 
long,  long  unbroken  crest,  clean  line  against  clean 

319 


FOES 

space,  brought  a  sense  of  quiet,  distance,  might. 
Here  solitude  was  at  home.  Now  Strickland  moved, 
and  now  he  stood  and  watched  the  quiet.  Turning 
at  last  a  shoulder  of  the  moor,  he  saw  at  some  dis 
tance  below  him  the  pool,  like  a  small  mirror.  He 
descended  toward  it,  without  noise  over  the  springy 
earth. 

A  horse  appeared  between  him  and  the  water. 
Strickland  felt  a  most  involuntary  startling  and 
thrill — then  half  laughed  to  think  that  he  had  feared 
that  he  saw  the  water-steed,  the  kelpie.  The  horse 
was  fastened  to  a  stake  that  once  had  been  the  bole 
of  an  ancient  willow.  It  grazed  around — somewhere 
would  be  a  master.  .  .  .  Presently  Strickland's  eye 
found  the  latter — a  man  lying  upon  the  moorside, 
just  above  the  water.  Again  with  a  shock  and  thrill 
— though  not  like  the  first — it  came  to  him  who  it 
was. 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  lay  very  still,  his  eyes 
upon  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  His  old  tutor,  long  his 
friend,  quiet  and  stanch,  gazed  unseen.  When  he 
had  moved  a  few  feet  an  outcropping  of  rock  hid 
his  form,  but  his  eyes  could  still  dwell  upon  the 
pool  and  the  man  its  visitor.  He  turned  to  go  away, 
then  he  stood  still. 

"What  if  he  means  a  closer  going  yet?"  Strick 
land  settled  back  against  the  rock.  "He  would 
loose  his  horse  first — he  would  not  leave  it  fastened 
here.  If  he  does  that  then  I  will  go  down  to  him." 

Glenfernie  lay  still.  There  was  no  wind  to-day. 
The  reeds  stood  straight,  the  willow  leaves  slept, 
the  water  stayed  like  dusky  glass.  The  air,  pure 
and  light,  hung  at  rest  in  the  ether.  Minutes  went 

320 


FOES 

by,  an  hour.  He  might,  Strickland  thought,  have 
lain  there  a  long  time.  At  last  he  sat  up,  rose,  be 
gan  to  walk  around  the  pool.  He  went  around  it 
thrice.  Then  again  he  sat  down,  his  arms  upon 
his  knees,  watching  the  dusk  water.  He  did  not 
go  nor  sit  like  one  overwrought  or  frenzied  or  de 
spairing.  His  great  frame,  his  bearing,  the  air  of 
him,  had  quietude,  but  not  listlessness ;  there  seemed 
at  once  calm  and  intensity  as  of  a  still  center  that 
had  flung  off  the  storm.  Time  flowed.  Thought 
Strickland : 

"He  is  as  far  as  I  am  from  death  in  that  water. 
I'll  cease  to  spy." 

He  moved  away,  moss  and  ling  muffling  step, 
gained  and  dipped  behind  the  shoulder  of  the  moor. 
The  horse  grazed  on.  The  laird  sat  still,  his  arms 
upon  his  knees,  his  head  a  little  lifted,  his  eyes  cross 
ing  the  Kelpie's  Pool  to  the  wave-line  against  the  sky. 

Strickland  went  to  where  the  moor  path  ran  by 
the  outermost  trees  of  the  glen  head.  Here  he  sat 
down  beneath  an  oak  and  waited.  Another  hour 
passed;  then  he  heard  the  horse's  hoofs.  He  rose 
and  met  Glenfernie  home-returning. 

"It  is  good  to  see  you,  Strickland!" 

"I  found  you  yonder  by  the  Kelpie's  Pool.  Then 
I  came  here  and  waited." 

"I  have  spent  hours  there.  .  .  .  They  were  not 
unhappy.  They  were  not  at  all  unhappy." 

They  moved  together  along  the  moor  track,  the 
horse  following. 

"I  am  glad  and  glad  again  that  you  have  come — " 

"I  have  been  coming  a  good  while.  But  there 
were  preventions." 

321 


FOES 

"We  have  heard  nothing  direct  for  almost  a 
year." 

"Then  my  letters  did  not  reach  you.  I  wrote, 
but  knew  that  they  might  not.  There  is  the  smoke 
from  Mother  Binning's  cot."  He  stood  still  to 
watch  the  mounting  feather.  "I  remember  when 
first  I  saw  that,  a  six-year-old,  climbing  the  glen 
with  my  father,  carried  on  his  shoulder  when  I  was 
tired.  I  thought  it  was  a  hut  in  a  fairy-tale.  .  .  . 
So  it  is !" 

To  Strickland  the  remarkable  thing  lay  in  the  lack 
of  strain,  the  simplicity  and  fullness.  Glenfernie 
was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him,  glad  to  see  home 
shapes  and  colors.  The  blue  feather  among  the 
trees  had  simply  pleased  him  as  it  could  not  please 
a  heart  fastened  to  rage  and  sorrow.  The  stream 
of  memories  that  it  had  beckoned — many  others,  it 
must  be,  besides  that  of  the  six-year-old's  visit — 
seemed  to  have  washed  itself  clear,  to  have  dis 
integrated,  dissolved  venom  and  stinging.  Strick 
land,  pondering  even  while  he  talked,  found  the 
word  he  wanted:  "Comprehensiveness.  ...  He  al 
ways  tended  to  that." 

Said  Glenfernie,  "I've  had  another  birth,  Strick 
land,  and  all  things  are  the  same  and  yet  not  the 
same."  He  gave  it  as  an  explanation,  but  then 
left  it.  They  were  going  the  moorland  way  to 
Glenfernie  House.  He  was  looking  from  side  to 
side,  recovering  old  landscape  in  sweep  and  in  de 
tail.  Bit  by  bit,  as  they  came  to  it,  Strickland  gave 
him  the  country  news.  At  last  there  was  the  house 
before  them,  among  the  firs  and  oaks,  topping  the 
crag.  They  came  into  the  wood  at  the  base  of  the 

322 


FOES 

hill.  The  stream — the  trees — above,  the  broken, 
ancient  wall,  the  roofs  of  the  new  house  that  was 
not  so  new,  the  old,  outstanding  keep.  The  whole 
rested,  mellowed,  lifted,  still,  against  a  serene  and 
azure  sky.  Alexander  stood  and  gazed. 

"The  keep.  The  pine  still  knots  and  clings  there 
by  the  school-room.  Do  you  remember,  Strickland, 
a  day  when  you  set  me  to  read  'The  Cranes  of 
Ibycus'?" 

"I  remember." 

"Life  within  life,  and  sky  above  sky! — I  hear 
Bran!" 

They  mounted  the  hill.  It  seemed  to  run  before 
them  that  the  laird  had  come  home.  Bran  and 
Davie  and  the  men  and  maids  and  Alice,  a  bonny 
woman,  and  Mrs.  Grizel,  very  little  withered,  ex 
claimed  and  ran.  Tibbie  Ross  was  there  that  day, 
and  Black  Alan  neighed  from  his  stall.  Even  the 
waving  trees — even  the  flowers  in  the  garden — • 
Home,  and  its  taste  and  fragrance — its  dear,  close 
emanations.  .  .  . 

That  evening  at  supper  Mrs.  Grizel  made  a  re 
mark.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at 
Glenfernie.  "I  never  thought  you  like  your  mother 
before!  Oh  aye!  there's  your  father,  too,  and  a 
kind  of  grand  man  he  was,  for  all  that  he  saw  things 
dark.  But  will  you  look,  Mr.  Strickland,  and  see 
Margaret — " 

Much  later,  from  his  own  room,  Strickland,  gaz 
ing  forth,  saw  light  in  the  keep.  Alexander  would 
be  sitting  there  among  the  books  and  every  ancient 
memorial.  Strickland  felt  a  touch  of  doubt  and 

323 


FOES 

apprehension.  Suppose  that  to-morrow  should  find 
not  this  Alexander,  at  once  old  and  new,  but  only 
the  Alexander  who  had  ridden  from  Glenfernie,  who 
had  shipped  to  Lisbon,  nearly  three  years  ago? 
To-day's  deep  satisfaction  only  a  dream!  Strick 
land  shook  off  the  fear. 

"He  breathed  lasting  growth.  .  .  .  O  Christ!  the 
help  for  all  in  winged  men!" 

He  turned  to  his  bed.  "Lying  awake  he  went  in 
imagination  to  the  desert,  to  the  Eastern  places, 
that  in  few  words  the  laird  had  painted. 

And  in  the  morning  he  found  still  the  old-new 
Alexander.  He  saw  that  the  new  had  always  been 
in  the  old,  the  oak  in  the  acorn.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
great,  sane  naturalness  in  the  alteration,  in  the  ad 
vance.  Strickland  caught  glimpses  of  larger  orders. 

"I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many  things.1' 

The  day  was  deep  and  bright.  The  laird  fell  at 
once  into  the  old  routine.  For  none  at  Glenfernie 
was  there  restlessness;  there  was  only  ache  gone, 
and  a  feeling  of  fulfilling.  Mrs.  Grizel  pattered  to 
and  fro.  Alice  sang  like  a  lark,  gathering  pansy 
seed  from  her  garden.  Phemie  and  Eppie  sang. 
The  men  whistled  at  their  work.  Davie  discoursed 
to  himself.  But  Tibbie  Ross  was  wild  to  get  away 
early  and  to  the  village  with  the  news.  By  the 
foot  of  the  hill  she  began  to  meet  wayfarers. 

"Oh,  aye,  this  is  the  real  weather !   Did  ye  know — ' ' 

Alexander  did  not  leave  home  that  day.  In 
their  old  work-room  he  listened  to  Strickland's  ac 
count  of  his  stewardship. 

"Strickland,  I  love  you!"  he  said,  when  it  was  all 
given. 

324 


FOES 

He  wrote  to  Jamie;  he  sat  in  the  garden  seat 
built  against  the  garden  wall  and  watched  Alice 
as  she  moved  from  plant  to  plant. 

"You  do  not  say  much,"  thought  Alice,  "but 
I  like  you — I  like  you — I  like  you!" 

In  the  afternoon  Strickland  met  him  coming  from 
the  little  green  beyond  the  school-room. 

"I  have  been  out  through  the  wall,  under  the  old 
pine.  I  seemed  to  hold  many  things  in  the  palm 
of  the  hand.  ...  I  believe  that  you  know  what  it  is 
to  make  essences." 

After  bedtime  Strickland  saw  again  the  light  in  the 
keep.  But  he  had  ceased  to  fear.  "Oh  All-Being, 
how  rich  and  stately  and  various  and  surprising 
you  are!"  In  the  morning,  outside  in  the  court, 
he  found  Black  Alan  saddled. 

"The  laird  will  be  riding  to  Black  Hill,"  said 
Tam  Dickson. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

MR.  ARCHIBALD  TOURIS  put  out  a  wrinkled 
hand  to  his  wine-glass.  "You  have  been  in 
warm  countries.  I  envy  you!  I  wish  that  I  could 
get  warm." 

"Black  Hill  is  looking  finely.  All  the  young 
trees — " 

"Yes.  I  took  pride  in  planting. — But  what  for — • 
what  for — what  for?"  He  shivered.  "Glenfernie, 
please  close  that  window!" 

Alexander,  coming  back,  stood  above  the  master 
of  Black  Hill.  "Will  you  tell  me,  sir,  where  Ian  is 
now?" 

Mr.  Touris  twitched  back  a  little  in  his  chair. 
"Don't  you  know?  I  thought  perhaps  that  you 
did." 

"I  ceased  to  follow  him  two  years  ago.  I  dived 
into  the  East,  and  I  have  been  long  where  you  do 
not  hear  from  the  West." 

The  other  fingered  his  wine-glass.  "Well,  I 
haven't  heard  myself,  for  quite  a  while.  .  .  .  You 
would  think  that  he  might  come  back  to  England 
now.  But  he  can't.  Doubtless  he  would  never  wish 
to  come  again  to  Black  Hill.  But  England,  now. 
...  But  they  are  ferocious  yet  against  every  head 
great  and  small  of  the  attempt.  And  I  am  told 

326 


FOES 

there  are  aggravating  circumstances.  He  had  worn 
the  King's  coat.  He  was  among  the  plotters  and 
instigators.  He  broke  prison.  Impossible  to  show 
mercy!"  Mr.  Touris  twitched  again.  "That's  a 
phrase  like  a  gravestone!  If  the  Almighty  uses  it, 
then  of  course  he  can't  be  Almighty.  .  .  .  Well,  the 
moral  is  that  none  named  Ian  Rullock  can  come 
again  to  Scotland  or  England." 

"Have  you  knowledge  that  he  wishes  to  do  so?" 

Mr.  Touris  moved  again.  "I  don't  know.  ...  I 
told  you  that  we  hadn't  heard.  But — " 

He  stopped  and  sat  staring  into  his  wine-glass. 
Alexander  read  on  as  by  starlight:  "But  I  did  hear 
— through  old  channels.  And  there  is  danger  of  his 
trying  to  return/' 

The  master  of  Black  Hill  put  the  wine  to  his  lips. 
"And  so  you  have  been  everywhere?" 

' '  No.     But  in  places  where  I  had  not  been  before. ' ' 

"The  East  India  has  ways  of  gathering  informa 
tion.  Through  Goodworth  I  can  get  at  a  good  deal 
when  I  want  to.  ...  There  is  Wo ther spoon,  also.  I 
am  practically  certain  that  Ian  is  in  France." 

"When  did  he  write?" 

"Alison  has  a  letter  maybe  twice  a  year.  One's 
overdue  now." 

"How  does  he  write?" 

"They  are  very  short.  He  doesn't  touch  on  old 
things — except,  perhaps,  back  into  boyhood.  She 
likes  to  get  them.  When  you  see  her,  don't  speak 
of  anything  save  his  staying  in  France,  as  he  ought 
to. ' '  He  dragged  toward  him  a  jar  of  snuff.  ' '  There 
are  informers  and  seekers  out  everywhere.  Do  you 
remember  a  man  in  Edinburgh  named  Gleig?" 

327 


FOES 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he's  one  of  them.     And  for  some  reason 
he  has  a  personal  enmity  toward  Ian.     So,   you 


He  lapsed  into  silence,  a  small,  aging,  chilly, 
wrinkled,  troubled  man.  Then  with  suddenness  a 
wintry  red  crept  into  his  cheek,  a  brightness  into 
his  eyes.  "You've  changed  so,  Glenfernie,  you've 
cheated  me!  You  are  his  foe  yourself.  Perhaps 
even  —  " 

"Perhaps  even  —  ?" 

The  other  gave  a  shriveled  response  to  the  smile. 
"No.  I  certainly  did  not  mean  that."  He  took 
his  head  in  his  hands  and  sighed.  "What  a  world 
it  is!  As  I  go  down  the  hill  I  wish  sometimes  that 
I  had  Alison's  eyes.  .  .  .  Well,  tell  me  about  yourself.  " 

"The  one  thing  that  I  want  to  tell  you  just  now, 
Black  Hill,  is  that  I  am  not  any  longer  bloodhound 
at  the  heels  of  Ian.  What  was  done  is  done.  Let 
us  go  on  to  better  things.  So  at  last  will  be  un- 
knit  what  was  done." 

Black  Hill  both  seemed  and  did  not  seem  to  pay 
attention.  The  man  who  sat  before  him  was  big 
and  straight  and  gave  forth  warmth  and  light.  He 
needed  warmth  and  light;  he  needed  a  big  tree  to 
lean  against.  He  vaguely  hoped  that  Glenfernie 
was  home  to  stay.  He  rubbed  his  hands  and  drank 
more  wine. 

"No  one  has  known  for  a  long  time  where  you 
were.  .  .  .  Good  worth  has  an  agent  in  Paris  who  says 
that  Ian  tried  once  to  find  out  that." 

"To  find  out  where  I  was?" 

"Yes." 

328 


FOES 

Alexander  gazed  out  of  window,  beyond  the  ter 
race  and  the  old  trees  to  the  long  hill,  purple  with 
heath,  sunny  and  clear  atop. 

A  servant  came  to  the  door.  "Mrs.  Alison  has 
returned,  sir." 

Glenfernie  rose.  "I  will  go  find  her  then. — I  will 
ride  over  often  if  I  may." 

"I  wish  you  would!"  said  Black  Hill.  "I  was 
sorry  about  that  quarrel  with  your  father." 

The  old  laird's  son  walked  down  the  matted  cor 
ridor.  The  drawing-room  door  stood  open;  he  saw 
one  panel  of  the  tall  screen  covered  with  pagodas, 
palms,  and  macaws.  Further  on  was  the  room, 
clean  and  fragrant,  known  as  Mi's.  Alison's  room. 
This  door,  too,  was  wide.  He  stood  by  his  old 
friend.  They  put  hands  into  hands;  eyes  met, 
eyes  held  in  a  long  look. 

She  said,  "O  God,  I  praise  Thee!" 

They  sat  within  the  garden  door,  on  one  side  the 
clear,  still  room,  on  the  other  the  green  and  growing 
things,  the  great  tree  loved  by  birds.  The  place  was 
like  a  cloister.  He  stayed  with  her  an  hour,  and  in 
all  that  time  there  was  not  a  great  deal  said  with 
the  outer  tongue.  But  each  grew  more  happy, 
deeper  and  stronger. 

He  talked  to  her  of  the  Roman  Campagna,  of  the 
East  and  the  desert.  .  .  . 

As  the  hour  closed  he  spoke  directly  of  Ian. 
"That  is  myself  now,  as  Elspeth  is  myself  now.  I 
falter,  I  fail,  but  I  go  on  to  profounder  Oneness." 

"Christ  is  born,  then  he  grows  up." 

"May  I  see  lan's  last  letters?" 

She  put  them  in  his  hands.  "They  are  very 
22  329 


FOES 

short.  They  speak  almost  always  of  external 
things." 

He  read,  then  sat  musing,  his  eyes  upon  the  tree. 
"This  last  one —  You  answered  that  it  was  not 
known  where  I  was?" 

"Yes.  But  he  says  here  at  the  last,  'I  feel  it 
somewhere  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  Scotland.*" 

"I'll  have  to  think  it  out." 

"Every  letter  is  objective  like  this.  But  for  all 
that,  I  divine,  in  the  dark,  a  ferment.  ...  As  you 
see,  we  have  not  heard  for  months." 

The  laird  of  Glenfernie  rode  at  last  from  Black 
Hill.  It  was  afternoon,  white  drifts  of  clouds  in 
the  sky,  light  and  shadow  moving  upon  field  and 
moor  and  distant,  framing  mountains.  He  rode 
by  Littlefarm  and  he  called  at  the  house  gate  for 
Robin  Greenlaw.  It  seemed  that  the  latter  was 
away  in  White  Farm  fields.  The  laird  might  meet 
him  riding  home.  A  mile  farther  on  he  saw  the 
gray  horse  crossing  the  stream. 

Glenfernie  and  Greenlaw,  meeting,  left  each  the 
saddle,  went  near  to  embracing,  sat  at  last  by  a 
stone  wall  in  the  late  sunshine,  and  felt  a  tide  of 
liking,  stronger,  not  weaker,  than  that  of  old  days. 

"You  are  looking  after  White  Farm?" 

"Yes.  The  old  man  fails.  Jenny  has  become  a 
cripple.  Gilian  and  I  are  the  rulers." 

"Or  servers?" 

"It  amounts  to  the  same.  . .  .  Gilian  has  a  splendid 
soul." 

"The  poems,  Robin.     Do  you  make  them  yet?" 

"Oh  yes!  Now  and  then.  All  this  helps.  .  .  . 
And  you,  Glenfernie,  I  could  make  a  poem  of  you!" 

330 


FOES 

The  laird  laughed.  "I  suppose  you  could  of 
all  men.  .  .  .  Gilian  and  you  do  not  marry?" 

"We  are  not  the  marrying  kind.  But  I  shouldn't 
love  beauty  inside  if  I  didn't  love  Gilian.  ...  I  see 
that  something  big  has  come  to  you,  Glenfernie, 
and  made  itself  at  home.  You'll  be  wanting  it 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  I  take  it  that  way. 
.  .  .  No  matter  what  you  have  seen,  is  not  this  vale 
fair?" 

"Fair  as  fair!  Loved  because  of  child  and  boy 
and  man.  .  .  .  Robin,  something  beyond  all  years  as 
we  count  them  can  be  put  into  moments.  ...  A 
moment  can  be  as  sizable  as  a  sun." 

"I  believe  it.  We  are  all  treading  toward  the 
land  of  wonders." 

When  he  parted  from  Robin  it  was  nearly  sunset. 
He  did  not  mean  to  stop  to-day  at  White  Farm, 
but  he  turned  Black  Alan  in  that  direction.  He 
would  ride  by  the  house  and  the  shining  stream  with 
the  stepping-stones.  Coming  beneath  the  bank 
thick  with  willow  and  aspen,  he  checked  the  horse 
and  sat  looking  at  the  long,  low  house.  It  held 
there  in  a  sunset  stillness,  a  sunset  glory,  a  dream  of 
dawn.  He  dismounted,  left  the  horse,  and  climbed 
to  the  strip  of  green  before  the  place.  None  seemed 
about,  all  seemed  within.  Here  was  the  fir- tree 
with  the  bench  around — so  old  a  tree,  watching  life 
so  long!  .  .  .  Now  he  saw  that  Jar  vis  Barrow  sat 
here.  But  the  old  man  was  asleep.  He  sat  with 
closed  eyes,  and  his  Bible  was  under  his  hand.  Be 
side  him,  tall  and  fair,  wide-browed,  gray-eyed, 
stood  Gilian.  Her  head  was  turned  toward  the 
fringed  bank;  when  she  saw  Alexander  she  put  her 


FOES 

finger  against  her  lips.  He  made  a  gesture  of  under 
standing  and  went  no  nearer.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  regarding  all,  then  drew  back  into  shadow  of 
willow  and  aspen,  descended  the  bank,  and,  mount 
ing  Black  Alan,  rode  home  through  the  purple  light. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  countryside,  the  village — the  Jardine  Arms 
— Mrs.  Macmurdo  in  her  shop  to  all  who  en 
tered — talked  of  the  laird's  homecoming.  "He's  a 
strange  sort!" 

"Some  do  say  he's  been  to  America  and  found  a 
gold-mine." 

"Na!  He's  just  been  journeying  around  in  him 
self." 

"I  am  na  spekalative.  He's  contentit,  and  sae 
am  I.  It's  a  mair  natural  warld  than  ye  think." 

"Three  year  syne  when  he  went  away,  he  lookit 
like  ane  o'  thae  figures  o'  tragedy — " 

"Aweel,  then,  he's  swallowed  himself  and  digested 
it." 

"I  ca'  it  fair  miracle!  The  Lord  touched  him  in. 
the  night." 

"Do  ye  haud  that  he'll  gang  to  kirk  the  morn?" 

"I  dinna  precisely  ken.  He  micht,  and  he  micht 
not." 

He  went,  entering  with  Mrs.  Grizel,  Alice,  and 
Strickland,  sitting  in  the  House  pew.  How  many 
kirks  he  thought  of,  sitting  there — what  cathedrals, 
chapels;  what  rude,  earnest  places;  what  temples, 
mosques,  caves,  ancient  groves;  what  fanes;  what 
worshiped  gods!  One,  one!  Temple  and  image, 

333 


FOES 

worshiped  and  worshiper.     Self  helping  self.     "O 
my  Self,  daily  and  deeply  help  myself!" 

The  little  white  stone  building — the  earnest, 
strenuous,  narrow  man  in  the  pulpit,  the  Scots  con 
gregation — old,  old,  familiar,  with  an  inner  odor 
not  unpungent,  not  unliked!  Life  Everlasting — 
Everlasting  Life.  .  .  . 

"That  ye  may  have  life  and  have  it  more  abun 
dantly.'9 

White  Farm  sat  in  the  White  Farm  place.  Jarvis 
Barrow  was  there.  But  he  did  not  sit  erect  as  of 
yore;  he  leaned  upon  his  staff.  Jenny  was  missed. 
Lame  now,  she  stayed  at  home  and  watched  the 
passing,  and  talked  to  herself  or  talked  to  others. 
Gilian  sat  beside  the  old  man.  Behind  were  Menie 
and  Merran,  Thomas  and  Willy.  Glenfernie's  eyes 
dwelt  quietly  upon  Jarvis  and  his  granddaughter. 
When  he  willed  he  could  see  Elspeth  beside 
Gilian. 

The  prayers,  the  sermon,  the  hymns.  .  .  .  All 
through  the  world-body  the  straining  toward  the 
larger  thing,  the  enveloping  Person!  As  he  sat 
there  he  felt  blood- warmth,  touch,  with  every  foot 
that  sought  hold,  with  every  hand  that  reached. 
He  saw  the  backward-falling,  and  he  saw  that  they 
did  not  fall  forever,  that  they  caught  and  held  and 
climbed  again.  He  saw  that  because  he  had  done 
that,  time  and  time  again  done  that. 

Mr.  M'Nab  preached  a  courageous,  if  harsh,  ser 
mon.     The  old  words  of  commination!    They  were 
not  empty — but  in  among  them,  fine  as  ether,  now  • 
ran  a  gloss.  .  .  .  The  sermon  ended,  the  final  psalm 
was  sung. 

334 


FOES 

"  When  Zion's  bondage  God  turned  back, 

As  men  that  dreamed  were  we. 
Then  filled  with  laughter  was  our  mouth. 
Our  tongue  with  melody — " 

But  the  Scots  congregation  went  out,  to  the  eye 
sober,  stern,  and  staid.  Glenfernie  spoke  to  Jarvis 
Barrow.  He  meant  to  do  no  more  than  give  a 
word  of  greeting.  But  the  old  man  put  forth  an 
emaciated  hand  and  held  him.  / 

"Is  it  the  auld  laird?  My  eyes  are  na  gude. — 
Eh,  laird,  I  remember  the  sermons  of  your  grand 
father,  Gawin  Elliot!  Aye,  aye!  he  was  a  lion 
against  sinners!  I  hae  seen  them  cringe!  ...  It 
is  the  auld  laird,  Gilian?" 

"No,  Grandfather.  You  remember  that  the  old 
laird  was  William.  This  is  Mr.  Alexander." 

"He  that  was  always  aff  somewhere  alane?" 
White  Farm  drew  his  mind  together.  "I  see  now! 
You're  right.  I  remember." 

"I  am  coming  to  White  Farm  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Barrow." 

"Come  then.  ...  Is  Grierson  slain?" 

"He's  away  in  past  time,"  said  Gilian.  "Grand 
father,  here's  Willy  to  help  you. — Don't  say  any 
thing  more  to  him  now,  Glenfernie." 

The  next  day  he  rode  to  White  Farm.  Jenny, 
through  the  window,  saw  him  coming,  but  Jarvis 
Barrow,  old  bodily  habits  changing,  lay  sleeping  on 
his  own  bed.  Nor  was  Gilian  at  hand.  The  laird 
sat  and  talked  with  Jenny  in  the  clean,  spare  living- 
room.  All  the  story  of  her  crippling  was  to  be  told, 
and  a  packed  chest  of  country  happenings  gone  over. 
Jenny  had  a  happy,  voluble  half -hour.  At  last, 

335 


FOES 

the  immediate  bag  exhausted,  she  began  to  cast 
her  mind  in  a  wider  circle.  Her  words  came  at  a 
slower  pace,  at  last  halted.  She  sat  in  silence,  an 
apple  red  in  her  cheeks.  She  eyed  askance  the  man 
over  against  her,  and  at  last  burst  forth : 

"Gilian  said  I  should  na  speir — but,  eh,  Glen- 
fernie,  I  wad  gie  mair  than  a  bawbee  to  ken  what 
you  did  to  him!"  f 

"Nothing." 

"Naething?" 

" Nothing  that  you  would  call  anything." 

Jenny  sat  with  open  mouth.  "They  said  you'd 
changed,  even  to  look  at — end  sae  you  have! — 
Northing!" 

Jarvis  Barrow  entered  the  room,  and  with  him 
came  Gilian.  The  old  man  failed,  failed.  Now  he 
knew  Glenfernie  and  spoke  to  him  of  to-day  and  of 
yesterday — and  now  he  addressed  him  as  though 
he  were  his  father,  the  old  laird,  or  even  his  grand 
father.  And  after  a  few  minutes  he  said  that  he 
would  go  out  to  the  fir-tree.  Alexander  helped  him 
there.  Gilian  took  the  Bible  and  placed  it  beside 
him. 

"Open  at  eleventh  Isaiah,"  he  said.  '"A nd  there 
shall  come  forth  a  rod  out  of  the  stem  of  Jesse,  and  a 
Branch  shall  grow  out  of  his  roots — ' " 

Gilian  opened  the  book.  "You  read,"  and  she 
sat  down  beside  him. 

"I  wish  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Alexander  to  her. 
"When—?" 

"I  am  going  to  town  to-morrow  afternoon.  I'll 
walk  back  over  the  moor." 

When  he  came  upon  the  moor  next  day  it  was 
336 


FOES 

bathed  by  a  sun  half-way  down  the  western  quarter. 
The  colors  of  it  were  lit,  the  vast  slopes  had  alike 
tenderness  and  majesty.  He  moved  over  the  moor; 
then  he  sat  down  by  a  furze-bush  and  waited. 
Gilian  came  at  last,  sat  down  near  him  in  the  dry, 
sweet  growth.  She  put  her  arms  over  her  knees; 
she  held  her  head  back  and  drank  the  ineffable  rich 
compassion  of  the  sky.  She  spoke  at  last. 

4 'Oh,  laird,  life's  a  marvel!" 

"I  feel  the  soul  now,"  he  said,  "of  marigolds  and 
pansies.  That  is  the  difference  to  me." 

"What  shall  you  do?  Stay  here  and  grow — or 
travel  again  and  grow?" 

"I  do  not  yet  know.  ...  It  depends." 

"It  depends  on  Ian,  does  it  not?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Now  you  speak  as  Gilian  and  now  you 
speak  as  Elspeth." 

"That  is  the  marvel  of  the  world.  .  .  .  That  Per 
son  whom  we  call  Being  has  also  a  long  name. — 
My  name,  her  name,  your  name,  his  name,  its 
name,  all  names!  Side  by  side,  one  over  another, 
one  through  another.  .  .  .  Who  comes  out  but  just 
that  Person?" 

They  sat  and  watched  the  orb  that  itself,  with  its 
members  the  planets,  went  a  great  journey.  Gilian 
began  to  talk  about  Elspeth.  She  talked  with  quiet 
ness,  with  depth,  insight,  and  love,  sitting  there  on 
the  golden  moor.  Elspeth — childhood  and  girlhood 
and  womanhood.  The  sister  of  Elspeth  spoke  sim 
ply,  but  the  sifted  words  came  from  a  poet's  gran 
ary.  She  made  pictures,  she  made  melodies  for 
Alexander.  Glints  of  vision,  fugitive  strains  of 
music,  echoes  of  a  quaint  and  subtle  mirth,  some- 

337 


FOES 

thing  elemental,  faylike — that  was  Elspeth.  And 
lightning  in  the  south  in  summer,  just  shown,  swiftly 
withdrawn — power  and  passion — sudden  similitudes 
with  great  love-women  of  old  story — that  also  was 
Elspeth.  And  a  crying  and  calling  for  the  Star  that 
gathers  all  stars — that  likewise  was  Elspeth.  Such 
and  such  did  Elspeth  show  herself  to  Gilian.  And 
that  half-year  that  they  knew  about  of  grief  and 
madness — it  was  not  scanted  nor  its  misery  denied ! 
It,  too,  was,  or  had  been,  of  Elspeth.  Deep  through 
ages,  again  and  again,  something  like  that  might 
have  worked  forth.  But  it  was  not  all  nor  most  of 
that  nature — had  not  been  and  would  not  be — 
would  not  be — would  not  be.  The  sister  of  Elspeth 
spoke  with  pure,  convinced  passion  as  to  that. 
Who  denied  the  dark?  There  were  the  dark  and 
the  light,  and  the  million  million  tones  of  each! 
And  there  was  the  eternal  space  where  differences 
trembled  into  harmony. 

With  the  sunset  they  moved  over  the  great,  clean 
slope  to  where  it  ran  down  to  fields  and  trees.  Be 
fore  them  was  White  Farm,  below  them  the  glisten 
ing  stream,  coral  and  gold  between  and  around  the 
stepping-stones.  They  parted  here,  Gilian  going  on 
to  the  house,  the  laird  turning  again  over  the  moor. 

He  passed  the  village;  he  came  by  the  white  kirk 
and  the  yew-trees  and  the  kirkyard.  All  were 
lifted  upon  the  hill-top,  all  wore  the  color  of  sunset 
and  the  color  of  dawn.  The  laird  of  Glenfemie 
moved  beside  the  kirkyard  wall.  He  seemed  to 
hold  in  his  hand  marigolds,  pinks,  and  pansies.  He 
saw  a  green  mound,  and  he  seemed  to  put  the  flow 
ers  there,  out  of  old  custom  and  tenderness.  But 

338 


FOES 

no  longer  did  he  feel  that  Elspeth  was  beneath  the 
mound.  Awide  tapering  cloud,  golden-feathered,  like 
a  wing  of  glory,  stretched  half  across  the  sky.  He 
looked  at  it;  he  looked  at  that  in  which  it  rested. 
His  lips  moved,  he  spoke  aloud. 

" O  Death!     where  is  thy  sting?    0  grave!  where 
is  thy  victory?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

DAYS  and  weeks  went  by.  Autumn  came  and 
stepped  in  russet  toward  winter.  Yet  it  was 
not  cold  and  the  mists  and  winds  delayed.  The  home 
coming  of  the  laird  of  Glenf  ernie  slipped  into  received 
fact — a  fact  rather  large,  acceptable,  bringing  into 
the  neighborhood  situation  of  things  in  general  a 
perceptible  amount  of  expansion  and  depth,  but 
settling  now,  for  the  general  run,  into  comfortable 
every-day.  They  were  used — until  these  late  years 
— to  seeing  a  laird  of  Glenfernie  about.  When  he 
was  not  there  it  was  a  missed  part  of  the  landscape. 
When  he  was  in  presence  Nature  showed  herself 
correctly  filled  out.  This  laird  was  like  and  not  like 
the  old  lairds.  Big  like  the  one  before  him  in  outward 
frame  and  seeming,  there  were  certainly  inner  dif 
ferences.  Dale  and  village  pondered  these  differ 
ences.  It  came  at  last  to  a  judgment  that  this 
Glenfernie  was  larger  and  kinder.  The  neighborhood 
considered  that  he  would  make  a  good  home  body, 
and  if  he  was  a  scholar,  sitting  late  in  the  old  keep 
over  great  books,  that  harmed  no  one,  redounded, 
indeed,  to  the  dale's  credit.  His  very  wanderings 
might  so  redound  now  that  they  were  over.  "  That's 
the  laird  of  Glenfernie,"  the  dale  might  say  to 
strangers. 


FOES 

It  was  dim,  gray,  late  November  weather.  There 
poured  rain,  shrieked  a  wind.  Then  the  sky  cleared 
and  the  air  stilled.  There  came  three  wonderful 
days,  one  after  the  other,  and  between  them  won 
derful  nights  with  a  waxing  moon.  Alexander,  riding 
home  from  Littlefarm,  found  waiting  for  him  in  the 
court  Peter  Lindsay,  of  Black  Hill.  This  was  a  trusted 
man. 

"I  hae  a  bit  letter  frae  Mistress  Alison,  laird." 
Giving  it  to  him,  Peter  came  close,  his  eye  upon  the 
approaching  stable-boy.  "Dinna  look  at  it  here, 
but  when  ye're  alone.  I'll  bide  and  tak  the  answer." 

Alexander  nodded,  turned,  and  crossed  to  the 
keep.  Within  its  ancient,  deep  entrance  he  broke 
seal  and  opened  the  paper  superscribed  by  Mrs. 
Alison.  Within  was  not  her  handwriting.  There 
ran  but  two  lines,  in  a  hand  with  which  he  was  well 
acquainted : 

"Will  you  meet  one  that  you  know  in  the  cave  to 
night  four  hours  after  moonrise?" 

He  went  back  to  the  messenger.  "The  answer 
is,  'Yes.'  Say  just  that,  Peter  Lindsay." 

The  day  went  by.  He  worked  with  Strickland. 
The  latter  thought  him  a  little  absent,  but  the  ac 
counts  were  checked  and  decisions  made.  At  the 
supper-table  he  was  more  quiet  than  usual. 

"Full  moon  to-night,"  said  Alice.  "What  does  it 
look  like,  Alexander,  when  it  shines  in  Rome  and 
when  it  comes  up  right  out  of  the  desert?" 

' '  It  lights  the  ruins  and  it  is  pale  day  in  the  desert. 
What  makes  you  think  to-night  of  Rome  and  the 
desert?" 

"  I  do  not  know.    I  see  the  rim  now  out  of  window. ' ' 

341 


FOES 

The  moon  climbed.  It  shone  with  an  intense 
silver  behind  leafless  boughs  and  behind  the  dark- 
clad  boughs  of  firs.  It  came  above  the  trees.  The 
night  hung  windless  and  deeply  clear.  A  fire  burned 
upon  the  hearth  of  the  room  in  the  keep.  Alexander 
sat  before  it  and  he  sat  very  still,  and  vast  pictures 
came  to  the  inner  eye,  and  to  the  inner  ear  mean 
ings  of  old  words.  .  .  . 

He  rose  at  last,  took  a  cloak,  and  went  down  the 
stone  stair  into  a  night  cold,  still,  and  bright.  The 
path  by  the  school-house,  the  hand's-breadth  of  sil 
vered  earth,  the  broken,  silvered  wall,  the  pine,  the 
rough  descent.  ...  He  went  through  the  dark  wood 
where  the  shining  fell  broken  like  a  shattered  mirror. 
Beyond  held  open  country  until  he  came  to  the 
glen  mouth.  The  moon  was  high.  He  heard  faint 
sounds  of  the  far  night-time,  and  his  own  step  upon 
the  silver  earth.  He  came  to  the  glen  and  the  sound 
of  water  streaming  to  the  sea. 

How  well  he  knew  this  place!  Thick  trees  spread 
arms  above,  rock  that  leaned  darkened  the  narrow 
path.  But  his  foot  knew  where  to  tread.  In  some 
more  open  span  down  poured  the  twice-broken  light ; 
then  came  darkness.  There  was  a  great  checkering 
of  light  and  darkness  and  the  slumbrous  sound  of 
water.  The  path  grew  steeper  and  rougher.  He  was 
approaching  the  middle  of  the  place. 

At  last  he  came  to  the  cave  mouth  and  the  leafless 
briers  that  curtained  it.  Just  before  it  was  reached, 
the  moonbeams  struck  through  clear  air.  There  was 
a  silver  lightness.  A  form  moved  from  where  it  had 
rested  against  the  rock.  lan's  voice  spoke. 

"Alexander?" 

342 


FOES 

"Yes,  it  is  I." 

"The  night  is  so  still.  I  heard  you  coming  a  long 
way  off.  I  have  lighted  a  fire  in  the  cave." 

They  entered  it — the  old  boyhood  haunt.  All  the 
air  was  moted  for  them  with  memories.  Ian  had 
made  the  fire  and  had  laid  fagots  for  mending.  The 
flame  played  and  murmured  and  reddened  the  walls. 
The  roof  was  high,  and  at  one  place  the  light  smoke 
made  hidden  exit.  It  was  dead  night.  Even  in  the 
daytime  the  glen  was  a  solitary  place. 

Alexander  put  down  his  cloak.  He  looked  about 
the  place,  then,  squarely  turning,  looked  at  Ian. 
Long  time  had  passed  since  they  had  spoken  each 
to  other  in  Rome.  Now  they  stood  in  that  ancient 
haunt  where  the  very  making  of  the  fire  sang  of  the 
old  always-done,  never-to-be-omitted,  here  in  the 
cave.  The  light  was  sufficient  for  each  to  study  the 
other's  face.  Alexander  spoke: 

"You  have  changed." 

"And  you.  Let  us  sit  down.  There  is  much  that 
I  want  to  say." 

They  sat,  and  again  it  was  as  they  used  to  do, 
with  the  fire  between  them,  but  out  of  plane,  so  that 
they  might  fully  view  each  other.  The  cave  kept 
stillness.  Subtly  and  silently  its  walls  became  pene 
trable.  They  crumbled,  dissolved.  Around  now  was 
space  and  the  two  were  men. 

Ian  looked  worn,  with  a  lined  face.  But  the  old 
brown-gold  splendor,  though  dusked  over,  drew  yet. 
No  one  might  feel  him  negligible.  And  something 
was  there,  quivering  in  the  dusk.  ...  He  and 
Alexander  rested  without  speech — or  rather  about 
them  whirled  inaudible  speech — intuitions,  divina- 

343 


FOES 

dons.  At  last  words  formed  themselves.  Ian 
spoke : 

"I  came  from  France  on  the  chance  that  you  were 
here.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  driven, 
driven,  by  one  with  a  scourge.  Then  that  changed 
to  a  longing.  At  last  I  resolved.  .  .  .  The  driving 
was  within — as  within  as  longing  and  determination. 
I  have  heard  Aunt  Alison  say  that  every  myth,  all 
world  stories,  are  but  symbols,  figures,  of  what  goes 
on  within.  Well,  I  have  found  out  about  the  Furies, 
and  about  some  other  myths." 

"Yes.    They  tried  to  tell  inner  things." 

"I  came  here  to  say  that  I  wronged  folk  from  whom 
a  man  within  me  cannot  part.  One  is  dead,  and  I 
have  to  seek  her  along  another  road.  But  you  are 
living,  breathing  there!  I  made  myself  your  foe, 
and  now  I  wish  that  I  could  unmake  what  I  made. 
...  I  was  and  am  a  sinful  soul.  ...  It  is  for  you 
to  say  if  it  is  anything  to  you,  what  I  confess."  He 
rose  from  the  fire  and  moved  once  or  twice  the  length 
of  the  place.  At  last  he  came  and  stood  before  the 
other.  "It  is  no  wonder  if  it  be  not  given,"  he  said. 
"But  I  ask  your  forgiveness,  Alexander!" 

"Well,  I  give  it  to  you,"  said  Alexander.  His  face 
worked.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  went  to  Ian.  He 
put  his  hands  upon  the  other's  shoulders.  "Old 
Saracen!"  he  said. 

Ian  shook.  With  the  dropping  of  Alexander's 
hands  he  went  back  a  step ;  he  sat  down  and  hid  his 
head  in  his  arms. 

Said  Alexander:  "You  did  thus  and  thus,  obeying 
inner  weakness,  calling  it  all  the  time  strength.  And 
do  I  not  know  that  I,  too,  made  myself  a  shadow 

344 


FOES 

going  after  shadows?  My  own  make  of  selfishness, 
arrogance,  and  hatred.  .  .  .  Let  us  do  better,  you 
and  I!"  He  mended  the  fire.  "By  understanding 
the  past  may  be  altered.  Already  it  is  altered  with 
you  and  me.  ...  I  was  here  the  other  day.  I 
stayed  a  long  time.  There  seemed  two  boys  in  the 
cave  and  there  seemed  a  girl  beside  them.  The  three 
felt  with  and  understood  and  were  one  another. " 
He  came  and  knelt  beside  Ian.  "Let  us  forge  a 
stronger  friendship!" 

Ian,  face  to  the  rock,  was  weeping,  weeping.  Alex 
ander  knelt  beside  him,  lay  beside  him,  arm  over 
heaving  shoulders.  Old  Steadfast — Old  Saracen — 
and  Elspeth  Barrow,  also,  and  around  and  through, 
pulsing,  cohering,  interpenetrating,  healing,  a  sense 
of  something  greater.  ... 

It  passed — the  torrent  force,  long  pent,  aching 
against  its  barriers.  Ian  lay  still,  at  last  sat  up. 

"Come  outside,"  said  Alexander,  "into  the  cold 
and  the  air." 

They  left  the  cave  for  the  moonlight  night.  They 
leaned  against  the  rock,  and  about  them  hung  the 
sleeping  trees.  The  crag  was  silvered,  the  stream 
ran  with  a  deep  under-sound.  The  air  struck  pure 
and  cold.  The  large  stars  shone  down  through  all  the 
flooding  radiance  of  the  moon.  The  familiar  place, 
the  strange  place,  the  old-new  place.  ...  At  last 
Ian  spoke,  "Have  you  been  to  the  Kelpie's  Pool?" 

"Yes.  The  day  I  came  home  I  lay  for  hours  be 
side  it." 

"I  was  there  to-night.    I  came  here  from  there." 

"It  is  with  us.     But  far  beside  it  is  also  with 
us!" 
23  345 


FOES 

"The  carnival  at  Rome.  When  I  left  Rome  I  went 
to  the  Lake  of  Como.  I  want  to  tell  you  of  a  night 
there  —  and  of  nights  and  days  later,  elsewhere  —  " 

"Come  within,  as  we  used  to  do,  and  talk  the  heart 
out." 

They  went  back  to  the  fire.  It  played  and  sang. 
The  minutes,  poignant,  full,  went  by. 

"So  at  last  prison  and  scaffold  risks  ceased  to 
count.  I  took  what  disguise  I  could  and  came." 

"All  at  Black  Hill  know?" 

"Yes.  But  they  are  not  betrayers.  I  do  not  show 
myself  and  am  not  called  by  my  name.  I  am  Senor 
Nobody." 

"Senor  Nobody." 

"When  I  broke  Edinburgh  gaol  I  fled  to  France 
through  Spain.  There  in  the  mountains  I  fell  among 
brigands.  I  had  to  find  ransom.  Senor  Nobody 
provided  it.  I  never  saw  him  nor  do  I  know  his 
name.  .  .  .  Alexander!" 

"Aye." 

"Was  it  you?" 

"Aye.  I  hated  while  I  gave.  .  .  .  But  I  don't 
hate  now.  I  don't  hate  myself.  Ian!" 

The  fire  played,  the  fire  sang. 

Alexander  spoke:  "Now  your  bodily  danger 
again  —  You've  put  your  head  into  the  lion's 
mouth!" 

"That  lion  weighs  nothing  here." 

"I  am  glad  that  you  came.  But  now  I  wish  to 
see  you  go!" 

"Yes,  I  must  go." 

"Is  it  back  to  France?" 
Yes  —  or  to  America,     I  do  not  know.     I  have 


" 


FOES 

thought  of  that.     But  here,  first,  I  thought  that  I 
should  go  to  White  Farm." 

"It  would  add  risk.  I  do  not  think  that  it  is 
needed." 

"Jarvis  Barrow — •" 

"The  old  man  lies  abed  and  his  wits  wander.  He 
would  hardly  know  you,  I  think — would  not  under 
stand.  Leave  him  now,  except  as  you  find  him 
within." 

"Her  sister?" 

"I  will  tell  Gilian.  That  is  a  wide  and  wise  spirit. 
She  will  understand." 

"Then  it  is  come  and  gone — " 

"Disappear  as  you  appeared!  None  here  wants 
your  peril,  and  the  griefs  and  evils  were  you  taken." 

"I  expected  to  go  back.  The  brig  Seawing 
brought  me.  It  sails  in  a  week's  time." 

"You  must  be  upon  it,  then." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so."  He  drew  a  long,  impatient 
breath.  "Let  us  leave  all  that!  Sufficient  to  the 
day —  I  wander  and  wander,  and  there  are  stones 
and  thorns — and  Circe,  too!  ...  You  have  the 
steady  light,  but  I  have  not!  The  wind  blows  it — 
it  flickers!" 

"Ah,  I  know  flickering,  too!" 

"Is  there  a  great  Senor  Somebody?  Sometimes  I 
feel  it— and  then  there  is  only  the  wild  ass  in  the 
desert!  The  dust  blinds  and  the  mire  sticks." 

"Ah,  Old  Saracen—" 

The  other  pushed  the  embers  together.  "This 
cave — this  glen.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  that  time 
we  were  in  Amsterdam  and  each  dreamed  one  night 
the  same  dream?" 

347 


FOES 

"I  remember." 

The  fire  was  sinking  for  the  night.  The  moon  was 
down  in  the  western  sky.  Around  and  around  the 
cave  and  the  glen  and  the  night  the  inner  ear  heard, 
as  it  were,  a  long,  faint,  wordless  cry  for  help.  Alex 
ander  brooded,  brooded,  his  eyes  upon  the  lessening 
flame.  At  last,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  rose. 
"I  smell  the  morning  air.  Let  us  be  going!" 

The  two  covered  the  embers  and  left  the  cave. 
The  moon  stood  above  the  western  rim  of  the  glen, 
the  sound  of  the  water  was  deep  and  full,  frost  hung 
in  the  air,  the  trees  great  and  small  stood  quiet,  in  a 
winter  dream.  Ian  and  Alexander  climbed  the  glen- 
side,  avoiding  Mother  Binning's  cot.  Now  they  were 
in  open  country,  moving  toward  Black  Hill. 

The  walk  was  not  a  short  one.  Daybreak  was  just 
behind  the  east  when  they  came  to  the  long  heath- 
grown  hill  that  faced  the  house,  the  purple  ridge 
where  as  boys  they  had  met.  They  climbed  it,  and 
in  the  east  was  light.  Beneath  them,  among  the 
trees,  Black  Hill  showed  roof  and  chimney.  Then 
up  the  path  toward  them  came  Peter  Lindsay. 

He  seemed  to  come  in  haste  and  a  kind  of  fear. 
When  he  saw  the  two  he  threw  up  his  hands,  then  vio 
lently  gestured  to  them  to  go  back  upon  their  path, 
cfrop  beneath  the  hilltop.  They  obeyed,  and  he  came 
to  them  himself,  panting,  sweat  upon  him  for  all  the 
chill  night.  "Mr. Ian — Laird!  Sogers  at  the  house — " 

"Ah!" 

"Twelve  of  them.  They  rade  in  an  hour  syne. 
The  lieutenant  swears  ye 're  there,  Mr.  Ian,  and  they 
search  the  house.  Didna  ye  see  the  lights  ?  Mrs.  Ali 
son  tauld  me  to  gae  warn  ye — " 

348 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  soldiers,  having  fruitlessly  searched  Black 
Hill,  for  the  present  set  up  quarters  there, 
and  searched  the  neighborhood.  They  gave  a  wide 
cast  to  that  word.  It  seemed  to  include  all  this  part 
of  Scotland.  Before  long  they  appeared,  not  unfore 
seen,  at  Glenfernie. 

The  lieutenant  was  a  wiry,  wide-nostriled  man, 
determined  to  please  superiors  and  win  promotion. 
He  had  now  men  at  the  Jardine  Arms  no  less  than 
men  at  Black  Hill.  Face  to  face  with  the  laird  of 
Glenfernie  in  the  latter's  hall,  he  explained  his 
errand. 

"Yes,"  said  Glenfernie.  "I  saw  you  coming  up 
the  hill.  Will  you  take  wine?" 

"To  your  health,  sir!" 

"To  your  health!" 

The  lieutenant  set  down  the  glass  and  wiped  his 
lips.  ' '  I  have  orders,  Mr.  Jardine,  which  I  may  not 
disobey." 

"Exactly  so,  Lieutenant." 

"My  duty,  therefore,  brings  me  in  at  your  door 
— though  of  course  I  may  say  that  you  and  your 
household  are  hardly  under  suspicion  of  harboring 
a  proscribed  rebel !  A  good  Whig  " — he  bowed  stiffly 
— "a  volunteer  serving  with  the  Duke  in  the  late 

349 


FOES 

trouble,  and,  last  but  not  least,  a  personal  enemy  of 
the  man  we  seek — " 

"The  catalogue  is  ample!"  said  Glenfernie.  "But 
still,  having  your  orders  to  make  no  exception,  you 
must  search  my  house.  It  is  at  your  service.  I  will 
show  you  from  room  to  room." 

Lieutenant  and  soldiers  and  laird  went  through 
the  place,  high  and  low  and  up  and  down.  "Per 
functory!"  said  the  lieutenant  twice.  "But  we  must 
do  as  we  are  told!" 

* '  Yes, ' '  said  the  laird.  *  *  This  is  my  sister's  garden. 
The  small  building  there  is  an  old  school-room." 

They  met  Alice  walking  in  the  garden,  in  the 
winter  sunshine.  Strickland,  too,  joined  them  here. 
Presentations  over,  the  lieutenant  again  repeated  his 
story. 

"Perfunctory,  of  course,  here — perfunctory!  The 
only  trace  that  we  think  we  have  we  found  in  a  glen 
near  you.  There  is  a  cave  there  that  I  understand 
he  used  to  haunt.  We  found  ashes,  still  warm, 
where  had  been  a  fire.  Pity  is,  the  ground  is  so  frozen 
no  footstep  shows!" 

"You  are  making  escape  difficult,"  said  Strickland. 

"I  flatter  myself  that  we'll  get  him  between  here 
and  the  sea!  I  am  going  presently,"  said  the  lieu 
tenant,  "to  a  place  called  White  Farm.  But  I  am 
given  to  understand  that  there  are  good  reasons — 
saving  the  lady's  presence — why  he'll  find  no  shelter 
there." 

"Over  yonder  is  the  old  keep,"  said  Glenfernie. 
"When  that  is  passed,  I  think  you  will  have  seen 
everything. ' ' 

They  left  Strickland  and  Alice  and  went  to  the 


FOES 

keep.  Their  footsteps  and  those  of  the  soldiers 
behind  them  rang  upon  the  stone  stairs. 

"Above  is  the  room,"  said  the  laird  of  Glenfernie, 
"where  as  a  boy  I  used  to  play  at  alchemy.  I  built 
a  furnace.  I  had  an  intention  of  making  lead  into 
gold.  I  keep  old  treasures  there  still,  and  it  is  still 
my  dear  old  lair — though  with  a  difference  as  I 
travel  on,  though  with  a  difference,  Lieutenant,  as  we 
travel  on!" 

They  came  into  the  room,  quiet,  filled  with  books 
and  old  apparatus,  with  a  burning  fire,  with  sun 
light  and  shadow  dappling  floor  and  wall.  "Well,  he 
would  hardly  hide  here!"  said  the  lieutenant. 

"Not  by  received  canons,"  answered  Glenfernie. 

The  lieutenant  spoke  to  the  soldiers.  "Go  about 
and  look  beneath  and  behind  matters.  There  are 
no  closets?" 

"There  are  only  these  presses  built  against  the 
stone."  The  laird  opened  them  as  he  spoke.  "You 
see — blank  space!"  He  moved  toward  a  corner. 
"This  structure  is  my  ancient  furnace  of  which  I 
spoke.  I  still  keep  it  fuel-filled  for  firing."  As  he 
spoke  he  opened  a  sizable  door. 

The  lieutenant,  stooping,  saw  the  piled  wood.  "I 
don't  know  much  of  alchemy,"  he  said.  "I've  never 
had  time  to  get  around  to  those  things.  It's  bringing 
out  sleeping  values  isn't  it?" 

"Something  like  that."  He  shut  the  furnace  door, 
and  they  stood  watching  the  soldiers  search  the  room. 
In  no  long  time  this  stood  a  completed  process. 

4 '  Perfunctory !"  said  again  the  lieutenant.  ' '  Now 
men,  we'll  to  White  Farm!" 

"There  is  food  and  drink  for  them  below,  on  this 


FOES 

chilly  day,"  said  the  laird,  "and  perhaps  in  the  hall 
you'll  drink  another  glass  of  wine?" 

All  went  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  keep. 
Another  half -hour  and  the  detail,  lieutenant  and  men, 
mounted  and  rode  away.  Glenfernie  and  Strickland 
watched  them  down  the  winding  road,  clear  of  the 
hill,  out  upon  the  highway. 

Alexander  went  back  alone  to  the  keep  that,  also, 
from  its  widened  loopholes,  might  watch  the  search 
ers  ride  away.  He  mounted  the  stair;  he  came  into 
his  old  room.  Ian  stood  beside  the  table.  The 
sizable  furnace  door  hung  open,  the  screen  of  heaped 
wood  was  disarranged. 

"It  was  a  good  notion,  that  recess  behind  my  old 
furnace!"  said  Glenfernie.  "You  took  no  harm  be 
yond  some  cobwebs  and  ashes?" 

"None,  Senor  Nobody,"  said  Ian. 

That  day  went  by.  The  laird  and  Strickland 
talked  together  in  low  voices  in  the  old  school-room. 
Davie,  too,  appeared  there  once,  and  an  old,  trusted 
stableman.  At  sunset  came  Robin  Greenlaw,  and 
stayed  an  hour.  The  stars  shone  out,  around  drew 
a  high,  windy  crystal  night. 

Mrs.  Grizel  went  to  bed.  Alexander,  with  Alice 
and  Strickland,  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  hall.  There 
was  much  that  the  laird  wished  to  say  that  he  said. 
They  spoke  in  low  voices,  leaning  toward  the  burn 
ing  logs,  the  light  playing  over  their  faces,  the  light 
laughing  upon  old  armor,  crossed  weapons,  upon 
the  walls.  Alice,  a  bonny  woman  with  sense  and  cour 
age,  sat  beside  Glenfernie.  Strickland,  from  his 
corner,  saw  how  much  she  looked  like  her  mother; 
how  much,  to-night,  Alexander  looked  like  her. 

352 


FOES 

They  talked  until  late.  They  came  to  agreement, 
quiet,  moved,  but  thorough.  Glenfernie  rose.  He 
took  Alice  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  thrice.  Moist 
ure  was  in  the  eyes  of  both. 

"Sleep,  dear,  sleep!  So  we  understand,  things 
grow  easy!" 

"I  think  that  you  are  right,  and  that  is  a  long  way 
to  comfort,"  said  Alice.  "Good  night,  good  night, 
Alexander!" 

When  she  was  gone  the  two  men  talked  yet  a  little 
longer,  over  the  dying  fire.  Then  they,  too,  wished 
each  other  good  night.  Strickland  went  to  his  room, 
but  Alexander  left  the  house  and  crossed  the  moon- 
filled  night  to  the  keep.  It  was  now  he  and  Ian. 

There  was  no  strain.  "Old  Steadfast"  and  "Old 
Saracen,"  and  a  long  pilgrimage  together,  and  every 
difference  granted,  yet,  in  the  background,  a  vast, 
an  oceanic  unity.  .  .  .  Ian  rose  from  the  settle.  He 
and  the  laird  of  Glenfernie  sat  by  the  table  and  with 
pen  and  paper  made  a  diagram  of  escape.  They 
bent  to  the  task  in  hand,  and  when  it  was  done,  and 
a  few  more  words  had  been  said,  they  turned  to  the 
pallets  which  Davie  had  spread  on  either  side  of  the 
hearth.  The  moon  and  the  low  fire  made  a  strange 
half-light  in  the  room.  The  two  lay  still,  addressed 
to  sleep.  They  spoke  and  answered  but  once. 

Said  Ian:  "I  felt  just  then  the  waves  of  the  sea!— 
The  waves  of  the  sea  and  the  roads  of  France.  .  .  . 
The  waves  and  roads  of  the  days  and  nights  and 
months  and  years.  I  there  and  you  here.  There  is 
an  ether,  doubtless,  that  links,  but  I  don't  tread  it 
firmly.  ...  Be  sure  I'll  turn  to  you,  call  to  you, 
often,  over  the  long  roads,  from  out  of  the  trough 

353 


FOES 

of  the  waves!  Senor  Nobody!  Senor  Nobody!'1  He 
laughed,  but  with  a  catch  of  the  breath.  "Good 
night!" 

"Good  night,  Old  Saracen!"  said  Alexander. 

Morn  came.  That  day  Glenfernie  House  heard 
still  that  all  that  region  was  searched.  The  day  went 
by,  short,  gray,  with  flurries  of  snow.  By  afternoon 
it  settled  to  a  great,  down-drifting  pall  of  white.  It 
was  falling  thick  and  fast  when  Alexander  Jardine 
and  Ian  Rullock  passed  through  the  broken  wall  be 
yond  the  school-room.  The  pine  branches  were  whi 
tening,  the  narrow,  rugged  path  ran  a  zigzag  of  white. 

Strickland  had  parted  from  them  at  the  wall,  and 
yet  Strickland  seemed  to  be  upon  the  path,  following 
Glenfernie.  Ian  wore  a  dress  of  Strickland's,  a  hat 
and  cloak  that  the  countryside  knew.  He  and 
Strickland  were  nearly  of  a  height.  Keeping  silence 
and  moving  through  a  dimness  of  the  descending 
day  and  the  shaken  veil  of  the  snow,  almost  any 
chance-met  neighbor  would  have  said,  in  passing, 
"Good  day,  Mr.  Strickland!" 

The  path  led  into  the  wood.  Trees  rose  about 
them,  phantoms  in  the  snowstorm.  The  snow  fell 
in  large  flakes,  straight,  undriven  by  wind.  Foot 
prints  made  transient  shapes.  The  snow  obliterated 
them  as  in  the  desert  moving  sand  obliterated.  Ian 
and  Alexander,  leaving  the  wood,  took  a  way  that 
led  by  field  and  moor  to  Littlefarm. 

The  earth  seemed  a  Solitary,  with  no  child  nor 
lover  of  hers  abroad.  The  day  declined,  the  snow 
fell.  Ian  and  Alexander  moved  on,  hardly  speaking. 
The  outer  landscape  rolled  dimmed,  softened,  with 
drawn.  The  inner  world  moved  among  its  own  con- 

354 


FOES 

tours.    The  day  flowed  toward  night,  as  the  night 
would  flow  toward  day. 

They  came  to  the  foot  of  the  moor  that  stretched 
between  White  Farm  and  Littlefarm. 

" There  is  a  woman  standing  by  that  tree,"  said 
Ian. 

"Yes.    It  is  Gilian." 

They  moved  toward  her.  Tall,  fair,  wide-browed 
and  gray-eyed,  she  leaned  against  the  oak  stem  and 
seemed  to  be  at  home  here,  too.  The  wide  falling 
snow,  the  mystic  light  and  quietness,  were  hers  for 
mantle.  As  they  approached  she  stirred. 

"Good  day,  Glenf ernie !— Good  day,  Ian  Rullock! 
— Glenf  ernie,  you  cannot  go  this  way!  Soldiers  are 
at  Littlefarm." 

' 'Did  Robin—  " 

"He  got  word  to  me  an  hour  since.  They  are 
chance-fallen,  the  second  time.  They  will  get  no 
news  and  soon  be  gone.  He  trusted  me  to  give  you 
warning.  He  says  wait  for  him  at  the  cot  that  was 
old  Skene's.  It  stands  empty  and  folk  say  that  it  is 
haunted  and  go  round  about."  She  left  the  tree  and 
took  the  path  with  them.  "It  lies  between  us  and 
White  Farm.  This  snow  is  friendly.  It  covers  marks 
— it  keeps  folk  within-doors — nor  does  it  mean  to 
fall  too  long  or  too  heavily." 

They  moved  together  through  the  falling  snow. 

It  was  a  mile  to  old  Skene's  cot.  They  walked  it 
almost  in  silence — upon  lan's  part  in  silence.  The 
snow  fell;  it  covered  their  footprints.  All  outlines 
showed  vague  and  looming.  The  three  seemed  three 
vital  points  moving  in  a  world  dissolving  or  a  world 
forming. 

355 


FOES 

The  empty  cot  rose  before  them,  the  thatch 
whitened,  the  door-stone  whitened.  Glenfernie 
pushed  the  door.  It  opened;  they  found  a  clean, 
bare  place,  twilight  now,  still,  with  the  falling  snow 
without. 

Gilian  spoke.  "I'll  go  on  now  to  White  Farm. 
Robin  will  come.  In  no  long  time  you'll  be  upon  the 
farther  road.  .  .  .  Now  I  will  say  Fare  you  well!" 

Alexander  took  her  hands.    " Farewell,  Gilian!" 

Gray  eyes  met  gray  eyes.  '  *  Be  it  short  time  or  be 
it  long  time — soon  home  to  Glenfernie,  or  long,  long 
gone — farewell,  and  God  bless  you,  Glenfernie!" 

"And  you,  Gilian!" 

She  turned  to  Ian.  "Ian  Rullock — farewell,  too, 
and  God  bless  you,  too!" 

She  was  gone.  They  watched  through  the  door 
her  form  moving  amid  falling  snow.  The  veil  be 
tween  thickened;  she  vanished;  there  were  only  the 
white  particles  of  the  dissolving  or  the  forming  world. 
The  two  kept  silence. 

Twilight  deepened,  night  came,  the  snow  ceased  to 
fall  for  a  time,  then  began  again,  but  less  thickly. 
One  hour  went  by,  two,  three.  Then  came  Robin 
Greenlaw  and  Peter  Lindsay,  riding,  and  with  them 
horses  for  the  two  who  waited  at  Skene's  cot. 

Four  men  rode  through  the  December  night.  At 
dawn  they  neared  the  sea.  The  snow  fell  no  longer. 
When  the  purple  bars  came  into  the  east  they  saw 
in  the  first  light  the  huddled  roofs  of  a  small  seaport. 
Beyond  lay  gray  water,  with  shipping  in  the  harbor. 

At  a  crossroads  the  party  divided.  Robin  Green- 
law  and  Peter  Lindsay  took  a  way  that  should  lead 
them  far  aside  from  this  port,  and  then  with  circui- 

356 


FOES 

tousness  home.  Before  they  reached  it  they  would 
separate,  coming  singly  into  their  own  dale,  back  to 
Black  Hill,  back  to  Littlefarm.  The  laird  of  Glen- 
fernie  and  Littlefarm,  dismounting,  moving  aside, 
talked  together  for  a  few  moments.  Ian  gave  Peter 
Lindsay  a  message  for  Mrs.  Alison.  .  .  .  Good-bys 
were  said.  Greenlaw  remounted ;  he  and  Peter -Lind 
say  moved  slowly  from  the  two  bound  to  the  port. 
A  dip  of  the  earth  presently  hid  them.  Alexander 
and  Ian  were  left  in  the  gray  dawn. 

"  Alexander,  I  know  the  safe  house  and  the  safe 
man  and  the  safe  ship.  Why  should  you  run  further 
danger?  Let  us  say  good-by  now!" 

"No,  not  now." 

"You  have  come  to  the  edge  of  Scotland.  Say 
farewell  here,  and  danger  saved,  rather  than  on  the 
water  stairs  in  a  little  while — " 

"No.  I  will  go  farther,  Ian.  There  is  Mackenzie's 
house,  over  there. " 

They  rode  through  the  winter  dawn  to  the  house 
at  the  edge  of  the  port,  where  lived  a  quiet  man  and 
wife,  under  obligations  to  the  Jardines.  There 
visited  them  now  the  laird  of  Glenfernie  and  his 
secretary,  Mr.  Strickland. 

The  latter,  it  seemed,  was  not  well — kept  his  room 
that  day.  The  laird  of  Glenfernie  went  about,  in 
deed,  but  never  once  went  near  the  waterside.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  at  eve,  the  master  of  the  Seawing,  riding  in 
the  harbor,  took  the  resolution  to  sail  by  cockcrow. 

The  sun  went  down  with  red  and  gold,  in  a  winter 
splendor.  Dark  night  followed,  but,  late,  there  rose 
a  moon.  Alexander  and  Ian,  coming  down  to  the 
harbor  edge  at  a  specified  place,  found  there  the  wait- 

357 


FOES 


ing  boat  with  two  rowers.  It  hung  before  them  on 
the  just-lit  water.  ''Now,  Old  Steadfast,  farewell!" 
said  Ian. 

"I  am  going  a  little  farther.    Step  in,  man!" 

The  boat  drove  across,  under  the  moon,  to  the 
Seawing.  The  two  mounted  the  brig's  side  and, 
touching  deck,  found  the  captain,  known  to  Ian,  who 
had  sailed  before  upon  the  Seawing,  and  known 
since  yesterday  to  Glenfernie.  The  captain  wel 
comed  them,  his  only  passengers,  using  not  their 
own  names,  but  others  that  had  been  chosen.  In 
the  cabin,  under  the  swinging  lantern,  there  followed 
a  few  words  as  to  weather,  ports,  and  sailing.  The 
tide  served,  the  Seawing  would  be  forth  in  an  hour. 
The  captain,  work  calling,  left  them  in  the  small 
lighted  place. 

"The  boat  is  waiting.  Now,  Old  Steadfast — Senor 
Nobody—" 

"Old  Saracen,  we  used  to  say  that  we'd  go  one 
day  to  India — " 

"Yes—" 

"Well,  let  us  go!" 

"175—" 

"Why  not?" 

They  stood  with  the  table  between  them.  Alex 
ander's  hands  moved  toward  lan's.  They  took 
hands;  there  followed  a  strong,  a  convulsive  press 
ure. 

"We  sin  in  differing  ways  and  at  differing  times," 
said  Alexander,  "but  we  all  sin.  And  we  all  struggle 
with  it  and  through  it  and  onward !  And  there  must 
be  some  kind  of  star  upon  our  heights.  Well,  let  us 
work  toward  it  together,  Old  Saracen!" 

358 


FOES 

They  went  out  of  the  cabin  and  upon  the  deck. 
The  boat  that  had  brought  them  was  gone.  They  saw 
it  in  the  moonlight,  half-way  back  to  the  quay.  On 
the  Seawing,  sailors  were  lifting  anchor.  They  stood 
and  watched.  The  moon  was  paling;  there  came 
the  scent  of  morning;  far  upon  the  shore  a  cock 
crew.  The  Seawing' s  crew  were  making  sail.  Out 
and  up  went  her  pinions,  filled  with  a  steady  and 
favoring  wind.  She  thrilled;  she  moved;  she  left 
the  harbor  for  a  new  voyage,  fresh  wonder  of  the 
eternal  world. 


THE     END 


YB 


